A Retelling of North and South
by SThornton
Summary: Margaret Hale is a clever and inventive young woman, whose family hides a shocking secret. John Thornton is a ruthless Milton manufacturer haunted by an intense personal darkness. What will happen when these two passionate people meet? - Will continue on past the end of the book/movie. Complete.
1. Prologue - Part 1

*Author's note: This is a story I've had in my head since I first saw the BBC film a few years ago. This is my reimagining of the wonderful story. Any dialogue you recognise is taken straight from the film.

So please review and let me know of any likes, dislikes, criticisms, mistakes, or prompts.

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Prologue

"There was a star danced, and under that I was born"

 _Margaret_

 _I have been preparing for this moment for weeks. Numerous dress fittings and coaching sessions. Making, buying or borrowing slippers, fans, feathers and jewelry to accompany my gown. A dance master was brought in so that I might learn the proper way of walking gracefully and with strength; how to curtsey all the way to the floor and rise again without throwing myself off balance._

 _My alabaster gown has been made to the exact prescribed specifications. The train is seven yards in length. The veil is made of a gossamer tulle that hovers just so over the train. My headdress contains the approved three white feathers. The sleeves of the gown are short and edged with scalloped lace. The neckline is almost vulgarly low, but is trimmed with enough sheer lace to off-set this impropriety._

 _The train is heavy and cumbersome. I spend hours learning how to exit the room with my train circled over one arm, without turning my back on any of its occupants._

 _I am to be presented at court, to Her Majesty Queen Victoria._

 _I am nervous yet excited. This tiny moment will turn me from a schoolgirl into a young woman ready to embrace the world. I pray that I will not forget the steps, that I will not lose my composure. I will be graceful and elegant, if only for this once._

 _My Aunt is presenting her daughter, my cousin. My sponsor is my Aunt's mother-in-law whom I have never met before this moment. It adds to my nerves._

 _We wait for hours outside St. James Palace in the carriage, the sun beating down on the lacquered roof of the cab. Finally, we are lead inside the magnificent palace, to the Gallery. We are ordered to take our place in the line according to rank. My party is towards the back of the line, but it is no matter. I am here, I am ready. I want to be out in the world, I want to meet my destiny, expand, grow, throw myself into life with open arms._

 _I approach the Queen's throne, trembling with nerves. Despite her small squat stature, the dignified woman excludes a majesty and a confidence that can only come from knowing precisely who you are and you're place in the world. I envy her that feeling._

 _The Royal Family and other members of the aristocracy are lined up at attention either side of the Queen. My eyes briefly flit over the Prince Consort. He is as light and handsome as everyone says he is. He is smiling gently, not at me, but at the Queen._

 _I curtsey; deeply, humbly, my eyes lowered to the ground in reverence. I kiss the Queen's outstretched hand to acknowledge her, thank her for this opportunity. I curtsy to all those who stand behind her. I rise one final time and can't help smiling widely. I have done it._

 _I stretched my hand out elegantly for my train, gently winding it around my arm so that it is out of the way of my feet. Without taking my eyes of the Queen, I back slowly out of the room. I wobble slightly and a footman reaches out with ease to steady me. He has done this countless times before. He squeezes my arm lightly in reassurance. I am grateful._

 _I am finally a woman, ready to make my mark on the world. My mind races ahead, guessing, wondering at all that I can do._


	2. Prologue - Part 2

"His coffers sound; with hollow poverty and emptiness"

 _John_

 _It's cold; a seizing vicious iciness._

 _This is the only thought that penetrates my mind this morning. The street lamps are still lit; the sun will not be out for a few more hours._

 _My coat does not fit; it is too small in the sleeves, too tight in the chest. I've grown faster than my mother anticipated. There is no money for another, not until next winter._

 _I am running, half to warm myself up, half so that I am not late. The draper snarls at me when I arrive. I am not late so he must yell at me for something else. My untidy hair, my unpolished boots._

 _I spend the day cutting, measuring, fetching, running. My breakfast turns sour in my stomach. My mother never had call to cook before and has no great skill at the task even now, two years later._

 _I watch my numb hands perform the movements. I can almost do this work in my sleep. Sometimes I feel I do._

 _I feel as though I am underwater; my ears filled with wool, a veil over my eyes. Nothing seems to penetrate the fog in my mind and this is why the draper hates me. He only keeps me because I am the only assistant he has ever had that follows orders and does as he's told without question._

 _I should not be here. I should be finishing school, off to university perhaps, but not here. Not here, after all my brilliant hopes and dreams for the future. All snuffed out in a single moment. A moment too painful to think of that I jerked my head away roughly, as though to shake the memory from my mind._

 _At one o'clock I am given a respite. I try to eat the small offering of food my mother has packed for me but it turns to ash in my mouth. I haven't felt hungry in years._

 _Dusk comes, and I am released to return home. It's drizzling slightly, a thick smog has blanketed the city. My damp hair falls into my eyes._

 _My little sister is crying when I arrive home. She has croup again. Her strange barking cough pierces my stupor. Coal is costly; we cannot spare more for this month. But if we do not steam the room, my sister's cough will only worsen._

 _I venture back out into the barrage of rain. I go to the station, the banks of the canal. I gather anything I can find that will burn and bring it home to my mother. I lay my bounty at her feet, a small pathetic offering from the provider of our family._

 _Our tiny flat is hung with clothes. My mother has taken in piecework to earn extra coin. Competing as she does with the many seamstresses and milliners in this city, she earns very little. It is my wages that support us, but it is not enough. I need to do more. Be more. I must become something else, something better than a draper's assistant if I am to provide for my family._

 _My education is limited, cut short by death. But I am a hard worker. Anyone who knows me will testify to this._

 _I stare at my sister's tiny face and my mother's prematurely line one. My determination intensifies. This is the first emotion I've felt in years. I will pull us from this destitution. I will become more, greater, better than even he was._

 _If I have to become ruthless to do so, so be it. I will never live like this again._


	3. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"That we would do; We should do when we would, for this 'would' changes"

Margaret Hale sighed happily as she watched Edith and her newly wedded husband dance about the room together. Edith was the very picture of a blushing bride, smiling and laughing as the Captain spun her into a waltz. Margaret searched the room for her parents and was happy to see them sitting with Aunt Shaw, Edith's mother. Aunt Shaw looked very relieved with the turn of events. Despite the loudness of the music and laughter, Margaret was able to hear her Aunt's loud exaltations.

"Sister, I cannot tell you what an expense this wedding has been!" exclaimed Aunt Shaw. "But it is no matter. I am so glad Edith agreed to the Captain's proposal. Now she can put her dallying behind her and focus on the duties of being a wife. I was truly worried for a long time, sister, as you know. I thought Edith would never settle, what with all her giddiness and flighty behaviour."

Margaret was inclined to agree with her Aunt. Since entering society, Edith thought of nothing but parties and dress fittings. She took great pleasure in dragging Margaret along to any number of social gatherings, whether Margaret wished to attend or not. Any other girl might have developed a reputation as a flirt, but Edith had such happy manners and sweet disposition that not a single person was able to take offence at her behaviour.

Margaret, on the other hand, was almost nothing like her cousin in temperament. In looks they were similar, the same stature and fair complexion, but Margaret was far more studious and restrained than her lighthearted cousin. Edith had taken it upon herself to educate Margaret in the language of love and romance, but Margaret was a poor student in this area. Though she tried desperately, she simply did not possess the same talent Edith had of pleasing everyone around her.

Margaret heard her name being called from across the room. Edith was beckoning to her, trying to engage Margaret in a dance with the Captain's brother. Margaret shook her head frantically, but was forced to hurry to her cousin's side after Edith's waving became more insistent. She had little interest in the man but danced with him to please her cousin. Edith was forever trying to push men in Margaret's direction.

Her partner was enthusiastic, but Margaret was a clumsy dancer. Even the skill of the man could not hide that. To take her mind off her embarrassment, Margaret watched Edith and the Captain, marveling at the ease with which the spoke to one another. The Captain was mesmerized by Edith's beauty and agreed with her on every subject. Margaret admired his devotion to her cousin but she couldn't fathom having such a relationship herself. Her experiences with Edith and her circle of flighty friends – and the many beaux Edith had attempted to entice Margaret with – had impressed upon Margaret the importance of finding a partner with whom one was on equal footing. She wanted a husband with whom she could converse with endlessly on all matter of subjects, who challenged her, listened to her. Who would be interested in her opinions, even if they were not his own. Looking about the room at all the puffed up dandies around her, Margaret did not believe she would find a man here that fit those expectations.

At the conclusion of the ball, Edith and her husband left to catch the train to the coast. The Captain had arranged for the two of them to spend their honeymoon in Greece. Margaret was envious of that. She longed to visit the Parthenon and Acropolis of Athens and all the other wonderful things she had only read about in history books. Margaret joined her parents and was surprised to see them looking so grave after the excitement of earlier.

"What is the matter? Has something happened?" asked Margaret anxiously.

"Nothing is wrong my dear," her father said gently, "we simply do not know how to tell you…"

"Tell me what?" Margaret's thoughts spun. "is it about – about…"

"No. its nothing has happened with…him. Nothing new, in any case." her father told her firmly, with a sideways glance at his wife, who looked close to tears. "No. it's that we have decided…I have decided," he corrected, "to leave the church and pursue a new line of work. Teaching."

Margaret was stunned. Her father had always been very firm in his faith, and he thoroughly enjoyed being a clergyman.

"It will mean a move as well. To Milton, in the North," her father continued. "I have done some research on the place and I believe it is the perfect place to make a new start."

"A new start!" her mother moaned. "As though our life before meant nothing!" Papa closed his eyes in pain but otherwise ignored his wife's statement.

"I have already arranged for the parsonage in Helstone to be packed up. We will not be returning. We will stay in here in London with your Aunt until the end of June, and then we'll begin our journey North," explained Papa. "I am sorry I did not tell you earlier. I did not want your last few weeks with your cousin to be spoilt by unhappiness."

"I don't follow," said Margaret slowly. Why leave the church now, after so many years, and so abruptly? Papa saw her confusion and hastened to explain.

"I have lived quietly with my misgivings for some time. I feel that it is no longer my place to preach to my flock. I cannot stand before them and preach good living and…guarding one's self against temptation… when… my son…" Papa turned away from them, his hand to his mouth, too distressed to continue. Mama began to cry into her handkerchief.

"It's alright Papa," said Margaret quickly, "you do not need to go on. I understand now." And she did. Her brother Fred was a forbidden topic in their household and had been so for the past few years. Margaret could not think of him without gut-wrenching pain and sadness. She couldn't imagine how much worse it must be for her parents. There was a feeling of dread every time she opened the newspaper, fearing she would find Fred's name within its pages, his exploits slandered across it once again for all to see.

Margaret spent the next few weeks in a daze. Her Aunt Shaw began to immediately protest the move. Mama did not speak any more on the subject although Margaret knew she was also unhappy with her husband's decision. Mama would start to complain once the family was alone, mourning the miserableness of their circumstances, as though nothing untoward had happened to prompt the relocation.

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Margaret listened to the loud thunder of the train on the tracks. The hills sped past in a rush of green, as the train weaved effortlessly passed. She marveled at how fast it moved. The slight sway of the carriage soothed her. Closing her eyes, she could almost reach a feeling of peace. Almost.

"We'll be on the streets," her mother moaned. "In a strange place!" She held a handkerchief up to her nose and sniffed delicately. Mama was bundled into far too many shawls for the summer weather. Moaning as usual. Nothing was ever to her mother's liking. She had hated their former home in Helstone, frustrated that her husband had risen no higher in the church than a small country parson. And now, with the opportunity to move somewhere new and begin again, her mother was still not satisfied. Margaret attempted to pacify her mother.

"Mama, I told you, we'll stay at a hotel until we find a house. It won't take long."

"Perhaps Dixon and I could stay on the coast while you look," Mama sniffed.

"Yes! As the missis is so delicate," said Mama's maid hopefully. Dixon leaned closer to Mama and made a show of adjusting her many layers of clothing. Margaret refrained from rolling her eyes with difficulty. Margaret wholeheartedly believed that it was Dixon's excessive attentions to her mother all these years that led her Mama to believe she was so delicate. And led Dixon to become so cross when thwart.

"No, Maria," her father said quietly, but firmly. "Your place is with us. It will not take us long to find a house. My old college friend, Mr. Bell, has agreed to help. He's already organised a list of potential pupils. There'll be plenty of teaching for me."

Papa adjusted his glasses and returned to his book. His tone, while pleasant, brook no argument. Margaret smiled to herself. That always the way. Her mother moaning, her father calm and controlled.

Unconvinced, her mother pressed on. "There will be no people there like us in Milton. How can there be?"

Her sad tone pierced Margaret's heart, when all her complaining had not. Margaret leaned forward and laid a comforting hand upon her mother's.

"We will manage, Mama. It's not another planet," said Margaret gently.

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"Outwood, Milton! Outwood, Milton! All change! All change for stations north!"

The noise of the station grated on Margaret after the quietness of the journey. She stood out of the way of the crush of people, watching as they strode purposefully about their tasks. The stationmaster, with his strange northern accent, bellowed above the din.

"Dixon! Take care and find a porter," said Mama, her nose already wrinkled in distaste against the strange metallic smells of the station. Dixon barked orders to an unfortunate porter. Margaret and her father divided the remaining luggage between the two of them. Outside the station, the porter maneuvered them to a hired carriage and helped them load their things inside. Her father gave the driver directions to the hotel recommended to him by Mr. Bell. The journey was not a long one, so Margaret did not have a great deal of time to take in the sights of Milton. But what she did see did not impress her. All the buildings were grey and immense and seemed to lack feeling. It seemed to Margaret that they stood there to exist against the land, not with it. Not like buildings in Helstone, or even London. That was certainly the better way to do it, thought Margaret. To design a property with comfort in mind. Even though her exposure so far had been brief, she doubted she could ever be truly comfortable in such a utilitarian place.

The hotel was modestly furnished, but comfortable. Dixon took exception to some of the finer points of the linens and food, and so her Mother did too. The maids were called in to remake the beds. Dixon got out her apron and began to polish the grate in the fireplace, muttering all the while. Margaret tried to appeal first to her mother and then her father that such a thing was excessive, but received little response. Margaret's demands directly to Dixon also went unheeded. It seemed that her parents were content to let Dixon do as she pleased, as long as she did it with gusto.

Mama also quibbled about numerous things that were, to Margaret's mind, irrelevant for the time and place. He mother had found a tiny rent in her lace cap and wanted to unpack her sewing kit and mend it immediately. Mama could not find the stockings she wanted to wear tomorrow and asked Margaret to unpack most of their cases to find them. She also insisted that they both wash their hair tonight, despite the late hour.

Margaret went to bed exhausted. She had not known dealing with her mother would be such a consuming task. Or perhaps she had forgotten. She had spent the most recent years in London with Edith after all. Margaret blew out the candle and lay back in the dark, pleased to be alone with her thoughts for the first time in a long while.

She was glad to have left London, despite the circumstances surrounding their departure. When she turned fifteen, her parents had sent her to live with her Aunt Shaw with the best intentions. They wanted her to gain a finer education and exposure to a more sophisticated social circle than she would have had in Helstone. As well as to allow Aunt Shaw's distinguished family to prepare Margaret for her presentation at court. Mindful of the effort and expense of such an undertaking, Margaret had not told her parents about much of her negative experiences in London since her coming out two years ago. How she always felt wrong-footed and awkward among her Aunt's refined friends. Margaret was always taught to speak plainly, and it seemed as though Londoners never did. What people said and what they meant were always different. The meanings were always hidden behind polite remarks and jests. An acquaintance would call for tea, and by the end of the visit, her Aunt and Edith would have gleaned much more information from the woman than she had said. It was a skill that Margaret had never been able to master. Edith told her it was because her emotions were always too boldly writ across her face. And because she expected others to speak their mind, as she did.

Occasionally, a young man might show an interest in her. They would always attempt to impress her with their polite manners and how well they danced. Whenever Margaret tried to deepen the encounter and talk about her opinions on the works of Dickens or the impoverished people in Ireland, they would look taken aback that she had veered from the agreed upon script. She had not laughed at their uninspired comment. She had not expressed a love for the opera or theatre or music. They would finish the dance with her, lead her back to her party and then politely wish her an enjoyable evening. A vapid smile, and then they would move on to some other young woman, hoping desperately that she would be more agreeable. Margaret always came away from such encounters annoyed and dispirited. Men in London lacked definition, all they showed you was all there was. Margaret had tried in vain to copy her cousin's mannerisms but she feared she came across as ridiculous instead. She had not Edith's agreeable disposition to make it believable.

Margaret had attempted to explain to Edith how she felt, but she didn't seem to understand. Edith was perfectly content with her lot; to spend her days dancing and laughing. Every small thing excited her cousin, from purchasing a new fan or an invitation to a garden party. It made Margaret feel ashamed that she could not find happiness in such things.

As she grew older, Margaret began to feel more restless. She felt uncomfortable in her own skin, and she couldn't fathom why. It pressed on her, an odd feeling just beneath her heart that overtook her in strange moments and left her aggravated. It made no sense for her to feel this way. She was aware of how lucky she was. She had a loving family and a fine education. Her Aunt had made sure that the Margaret spoke French, and could sew, play the piano, as well as dance and draw. When she went home for the summer, while her Aunt and Edith visited the continent, her Father instilled in her an appreciation for the classics, for philosophy and history.

But still, Margaret felt discontented. It was not an unhappiness, that much she understood. It was as though she was … waiting. Waiting for something to begin, but without knowing what it might be, or why she should feel that way. She had been so excited at her coming out, glad at last to stretch her wings and become whoever she wished. But it had not happened as she imagined. Instead, she had still felt confined and constricted; partly due to Aunt Shaw's watchfulness. Margaret did not achieve the freedom she had been expecting.

This was why she was glad to have come to Milton, more so than she had told her parents. Perhaps in a place that was not Helstone or London, she might be able to discover what it was that she felt she should be searching for.


	4. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste"

Margaret and her father spent the next few days visiting several properties. They had divided the task in order to cover more ground. Margaret was dismayed by what she had seen so far. The rent was reasonable enough on many of the properties, but viewing each one as her mother might, she knew none of them would hold up to her mother's exacting expectations. Milton placed much more emphasis on industry than society. All the houses Margaret had seen were modern and built with economy in mind. They were within close distance to many of the factories. In more than one house, the near constant noise of the street persisted through the windows, even when closed. Her father had spoken of a house that was entirely the same shade of grey inside as it was out, with no trimmings at all.

Margaret was also astonished to see just how many impoverished people there were in Milton. She had no real experience with poverty, not in the truly destitute sense. She'd seen poor people in London of course, but only ever at a distance. Aunt Shaw, and consequently Edith and Margaret, had never ventured outside of the fashionable areas. Here in Milton, the lower class far outnumbered the upper and middle ones, and they seemed to be everywhere. Along the streets selling their wares, packed into carts taking them to the mills and factories. They were dressed in plain threadbare clothes and all looked frightfully thin, even ill. Despite Margaret's unadorned day gown and coat, she felt she stood out shamefully, a beacon of wealth, against all these unfortunate people. She did see some other people of quality, but none were walking as she was. They were in gleaming carriages or crowded inside shops, anxious to get away from the smoke-filled air. The sights she saw in Milton as she went about her errand made her feel very disheartened. She was compelled to gave a few of her merger coins to a young mother and child she saw crouched listlessly in a doorway. She could feel her spirits being pulled downwards. Tears began to prick at the back of her eyes. How could she live here in comfort in a place like this, when there was so much sadness around her?

Margaret shook herself slightly and resolved to put the matter out of her mind for the present time. She must focus her energies on the more pressing issue of finding a place to live. She would be in a better position to aid others if she and her family was settled and receiving steady income.

On the third day of her errand, Margaret was more hopeful. She had an appointment with a landlady in Crampton. She hoped that a woman's touch to the rooms might help ease some of her mother's many misgivings about Milton. However, the landlady – Mrs. Collins – was a disappointment. Margaret expected a matronly woman, open and friendly. What she found instead however, was a grim bony woman who only wanted assurances that Margaret's family could afford the rent.

"What does your Father do, then?" she demanded, after Margaret had explained her errand.

"He is a tutor. He will be," she corrected, "once we are settled."

"Hmph. Not much call for that in Milton. Men here work, they don't sit in a dusty library nodding over books." Mrs. Collins' beady eyes ran over Margaret's plain gown and unfashionable hat. "It'll be twenty-seven pounds for the year. I know it seems steep, but I keep it in excellent condition."

Mrs. Collins led Margaret up the narrow staircase. The stairs creaked ominously under their feet. Margaret wondering if the stairs could hold up to the constant comings and goings of Papa's students. As if anticipating her comment, Mrs. Collins narrowed her eyes and said, "The house is in good repair. I've just had it papered and painted."

Mrs. Collins continued along the landing, opening doors for Margaret to inspect. She opened her mouth to remark that they all seemed a bit small, but Mrs. Collins beat her to it.

"The rooms may seem small but they're not. Not once all the furniture has been arranged. Anyway, how much room do three people need?"

Margaret bristled slightly. "My father will need to educate his pupils in his home. We will need room for them, he is expecting many." Mrs. Collins did not seem to appreciate Margaret's answer to what she clearly intended to be a rhetorical remark.

"I live in the house next door," she said crisply. "So I would prefer noise inside the house to be kept to a minimum."

Margaret bit back a sigh. She did not relish the idea of living so close to such an unpleasant landlady. And she knew her mother would dislike the small dull rooms. She bid Mrs. Collins good day, and was unceremoniously ushered back out onto the street.

Margaret adjusted her bonnet and checked the next address on her paper, also located in Crampton. She weaved her way though the busy streets in a rapidly darkening mood. She was disappointed that her hopes for the previous house had been dashed. The frustrations of her task were also beginning to weigh on her. They did not have the funds to spare to continue to stay at the hotel for an indefinite period. It was becoming a matter of urgency that they find a suitable place soon. Margaret was certain that they might have to redefine their parameters of what they considered suitable. However, Margaret also did not want to have to deal with her mother's and Dixon's constant grumblings about the inadequacies of a substandard house.

Having found the correct street, Margaret made her way down towards address she had marked on her paper. She skirted around the crowds of people outside the shops. Sellers were yelling their sales at the tops of their voices, competing to be heard over one another. A tired woman was sitting on a stool was plucking a chicken, its feathers ghosting through the air around her.

Margaret paused a moment to look at the outside of the house. It was among a row of terrace houses, blending seamlessly in with all the others. The houses in this street seemed to exude a sense of strength, of solidness, that the previous houses had lacked.

The front door to the house was already open and Margaret quickly climbed the stairs and into the house. Margaret noted immediately that it seemed quieter inside. Unlike the last property she viewed, the architect had clearly designed this row of houses in such a way that minimized the noise outside. The rooms were spacious. As she walked around, Margaret saw that there would be space enough for a drawing room, her mother's parlor and a study for her father to entertain his pupils. Margaret was pleased to see that the kitchen had a stone floor and a good size stove. Peering through the windows, she was surprised and pleased to see a small garden out the back of the house. Hearing voices above her, Margaret moved further up the staircase. She ascended slowly, inspecting the walls for damage and the stairs for any unevenness. Finding none, Margaret smiled. This was the nicest house she had viewed so far. The advertisement did not state a set price, but Margaret was confident that she would be able to negotiate a fair amount, having heard what others in the area were charging. Margaret walked towards the sound of the voices. She paused at the door, which stood slightly ajar. She could see two men inside, and was chagrined to realize that they were discussing her father.

"I'm making inquiries on behalf of one of my master's business acquaintances. The man is still living as a clergyman. Or rather a former clergyman. He's used to living simply. I don't think he's ever been a man of great property or fortune," said the shorter of the two.

"Strange behaviour isn't it? For a man to uproot his wife and child to come all the way to Milton from the South!" said the other genially, as though sharing some great joke.

Margaret could not believe what she was hearing. Two complete strangers discussing her family and their private affairs! She pushed the door open wider and strode into the room. Both men turned to look at her.

"Excuse me, madam, can I help you?" asked the shorter one, rather rudely. Margaret drew herself up to full height.

"My name is Margaret Hale," she informed them cuttingly. Their expressions changed from annoyance to embarrassment, realizing that she had no doubt heard their conversation about her father. "Who are you?" demanded Margaret.

"I'm Williams, Mr. Thornton's overseer," he told her, as though she should already know this. He pronounced his master's name with a slight reverence, which irked Margaret even more. When Margaret did not respond, Williams continued. "He asked me to look out properties for your father."

Margaret thought that very presumptuous. Her and her father were already doing so, why did a stranger need to involve himself in the task as well? She wondered how his master came to know of her family and their situation.

"How much is the rent for the year?" She inquired, moving further into the room towards the windows.

"These are details Mr. Thornton will discuss with your father. There's no need to concern yourself in money matters, ma'am," said Williams, in what was clearly meant to be was a warm tone. Margaret turned to him, annoyed.

"I've no idea who your Mr. Thornton is," she said coolly. "I thank him for his trouble, but my father and I are sharing the task of securing a property."

Williams and the landlord glanced at each other, clearly uncomfortable with her. Margaret fixed them with a hard stare. "I have spent two days viewing what Milton has to offer, so I have a fairly good idea of price," she told them, attempting to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Mr. Thornton thinks this will do very well for your father," Williams said evasively. Margaret felt her anger growing, even though that was what she herself had also thought about the house.

"Where _is_ Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, taking a step closer to Williams. The men seemed taken aback by her question. Margaret looked from one to the other. Margaret could not tell if their surprise was because of her directness, or because they assumed that she should already know who and where Mr. Thornton was. She couldn't believe the arrogance of this Mr. Thornton. To assume that she would know him instantly, and what's more, welcome his help with a task that she had been undertaking perfectly well on her own for the past two days. Margaret found she had suddenly lost her patience for these two evasive and lackluster men.

"Take me to see this Mr. Thornton," Margaret snapped at Williams. "If you won't deal with me, I'll have to deal with _him_."

Margaret stomped down the stairs with much more force than was entirely necessary. Once back on the street, she waited impatiently for Williams to catch up with her. He hailed a carriage and offered her his hand to assist her inside, which Margaret, still seething, did not take. Williams himself climbed up next to the driver. Margaret watched the scenery move past out the windows. She clenched her hands together in an effort to control herself. She should not barrel into the encounter ready to start a row. There may be a logical explanation for Mr. Thornton's interference.

The carriage was forced to stop several times to make way for a crowd of people or carts. Milton was as chaotic as London, but in a different, less leisurely way. The people here always seemed to move with such urgency. Despite her anger, Margaret wondered how her father would fare in such a place. He preferred to do things slowing, appreciating each and every action or decision. He was a ruminator, a scholar to his core. Watching the busy people outside, Margaret began to wonder how anyone in Milton could possibly be of a similar disposition.

The carriage rolled to a halt outside an enormous stone archway. A carved sign above the archway proclaimed the place to Marlborough Mill. Thick wooden gates stood at the entrance, but were currently propped open, giving Margaret a view of a stately manor across a courtyard from an enormous mill. The arrangement of the structures was reminiscent of a castle. A great manor hidden away inside a stone barricade, guarded by a wooden portcullis. Only the expansive shape of the mill was out of place.

"Does Mr. Thornton live here?" she asked Williams in disbelief. She couldn't imagine someone wanting to live in such close quarters to a factory of any kind.

"Aye, but he'll be at work," Williams replied.

Margaret followed Williams through the courtyard. People were loading goods in and out of carts, everyone was shouting and yelling. Margaret could hear machinery churning, drowning out almost every other sound. Williams steered her towards the mill. He led her up a wooden staircase and into a richly furnished office.

"Stay here, miss. I'll find Master," he told her before leaving her alone. Margaret found herself in a beautiful room, paneled with oak. She breathed in the scent of ink, leather and metal. Bookshelves lined almost every available space on the walls. Wide windows faced out towards the courtyard. Margaret was instantly captivated by the room. It seemed to her to be the very image of an industrial man that Milton was known for. Margaret peered closely at the titles on the shelves and saw they were all about manufacturing, economics, cotton, machine repairs. She stood by the window and watched the workers load the carts with a seemingly ceaseless number of paper-wrapped bolts of cloth. After a while, Margaret moved towards a large desk upon which an enormous leger rested. Flipping cautiously through the pages, Margaret noted that Mr. Thornton kept painstaking detail about his business. Every shilling spent or earned appeared to be recorded in the book, along with detailed notes on orders past and future. Margaret glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that she had been left standing alone in the room for almost twenty minutes. Her irritation with Williams and Mr. Thornton returned threefold.

Margaret walked purposefully out of the office. She clattered down the stairs to the floor of the mill. Her half boots clicked with every step on the stone floor, echoing in the large room. The workers bustled back in forth in front of her. Some did not even glance at her, others stared, openly curious as to what she is doing in a place like this. There was a glint of white floating in the air. Margaret realized that it was cotton fluff, coming loose as the workers went about their tasks. She coughed, shocked, as she felt the lint get caught in her throat. Margaret waved her hand in front of her face in an effort to dispel the thickness of the particles. The sounds of machines became louder and louder as Margaret strode towards the back of the room. Pausing a moment at a large wooden door, Margaret could hear voices on the other side. No doubt Williams and Mr. Thornton were in there. Margaret rolled open the heavy door and gasped.

Dozens, hundreds of machines took up every inch of the floor. They were whirring and churning, the sound of them intense. Sheets of snow white cloth spilt out of every one of the machines. Workers moved between the contraptions, operating the mechanisms. The cotton fluff was thickest in this room. It seemed to Margaret as though it was snowing, right here inside the cavernous room. For a brief moment, she thought it magical.

The room was shockingly white. Even the workers were wearing light colored clothing. Margaret walked slowly through the lines of machinery, utterly captivated. She had never seen industry on such a scale before. There must be thousands of yards of cloth just in this room, enough to clothe hundreds of people. She lifted her hands, palms up, to catch some of the fluff. She rubbed it between her fingers and marveled at its softness. Margaret moved further into the room, errand entirely forgotten. She examined the closest machine, mesmerized by the rhythm of its movements. The workers took no notice of her as she walked between them towards the centre of the room.

Movement above her drew her gaze abruptly upwards. Margaret halted and stared. A tall gentleman was standing on a raised walkway. He was so out of place in this white room that it seemed deliberate. He was clad entirely in black, his clothes expensive and well cut. His eyes were sharp and calculating, taking in everything in front of him. Margaret realized this must be Mr. Thornton. The master was surveying his manor.

As she watched, the man's gaze rested on something to her left that she could not see. Then suddenly, his unreadable expression transformed into one of outrage.

"Stephens!" he bellowed. "Put that pipe out!"

With surprising speed, Mr. Thornton raced down the metal staircase to the mill floor. The man at which he shouted ran towards Margaret and out through the door she had just entered. Margaret watched in astonishment as Thornton raced after him.

"I saw ya! Stephens! Stephens! Come here!"

Without comprehending her actions, Margaret followed the two men. She could hear Stephens pleading with his master and the sound of a violent confrontation.

"You stupid idiot!" Mr. Thornton yelled. The sound of fists hitting flesh was heard again and again.

"Please, sir!" Stephens words were garbled as though he was having trouble speaking. "I 'ave little ones!"

Rounding the corner, Margaret couldn't believe the repulsive sight before her. Stephens was curled up in a ball on the floor and sobbing, his nose bleeding profusely. Mr. Thornton drew back and kicked the fallen man in the chest, once, twice. That brutal action snapped Margaret out of her stupor.

"Stop!" Margaret cried in anguish. "Stop! Please, stop!"

Mr. Thornton turned to her, panting. "Who are you? What are you doing in here?" he demanded angrily.

"My name is Margaret Hale," she responded, shaken. She couldn't take her eyes off the poor creature on the floor. He was wiping at his face, trying to stop the flow of blood.

Williams came up running up next to her. "Miss Hale!" he gasped. He turned to Thornton. "I'm sorry sir, Mr. Thornton, I told her to stay in the office."

"Get her out of here!" Mr. Thornton shouted, not sparing Margaret a second glance. He turned back to Stephens.

"Aye, crawl away on your belly and don't come back," he spat. Stephens rolled over and crawled towards Mr. Thornton. He was gasping and crying, still trying to stem the flow of blood with his sleeve.

"Please, sir," he whimpered. "I promise it'll not 'appen again!" Mr. Thornton snarled, a shocking sound, and kicked him again, violently enough that Stephens fell back hard against the floor, his body making a sickening thump against the stone.

"You know the rules!"  
"My children will starve, sir!"  
"Better they starve than burn to death! Get out before I call the police!"

Stephens heaved himself up on all fours and put one shaking hand to his midriff. Mr. Thornton spun towards Williams and Margaret.

"Get that woman out of here!" Thornton barked at Williams. He then threw himself away from the group and stormed off.

Stephens had managed to rise to his feet and stumbled away from them, using the wall as a support. Margaret barely heard Williams urging her on, he mind was full of the gruesome scene she had just witnessed. Mr. Thornton, whom she had assumed to be a gentleman, has just beaten one of his mill hands for no other reason than to bring a pipe onto the mill floor. And more than just giving him a sound smack, Thornton had rained blow after blow down upon him until the man could barely stand. His nose was almost certainly broken; his ribs might be as well. Stephens pleas for his children rang in her ears.

The sudden rush of cool air to her face made Margaret aware of the fact that she was now back in the courtyard. Margaret marched towards the stone archway, determined never to set foot in the place again.


	5. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Day, night, late, early; At home, abroad, alone, in company"

Back at the hotel, Margaret found her parents sitting down to tea together. Her father was telling her mother about a letter he had received that morning, detailing a house for rent that the author, Mr. Thornton, assured them would be adequate for their needs. Margaret, still shaken from her encounter earlier, could only nod numbly when her father asked her if this Crampton address had been one of the properties she had visited. Margaret was torn. The house was by far the nicest she had seen and had all the space their new life would need. But she also loathed to have any further dealings with Mr. Thornton, no matter how indirectly. Her mother pressed her for details about the house and Margaret supplied them as accurately as she could recount. Margaret was further conflicted as her mother began to express a liking for her description. It was the first positive thing Mama had said since coming to Milton. Margaret could only watch helplessly as her father agreed to write to the landlord directly, with his assurance that the Hales would be taking up residence of the place, at thirty pounds per annum, as soon as it could be arranged. In deference to her mother's changing temperament and in an effort to keep the peace, Margaret did not tell her parents of the encounter she had with Mr. Thornton at his mill. Since he was not the landlord, it was unlikely that they would cross paths again. Margaret would put him from her mind. Such a rough man was not worth a second thought.

Margaret wondered what would happen to Stephens. She could think of no way to enquire after his welfare. Marlborough Mill might have a place of residence for him, but going back to request it was clearly not an option. Margaret hoped that his wife would be able to care for him while he recovered. She also wondered if any of the dozen other mill owners in Milton would employ him, or whether they would close their doors against a man if one of their own spoke against him.

Margaret knew there was nothing she could really do to help Stephens, and that thought troubled her. The matter with their new house decided somewhat, the thoughts Margaret had earlier returned. As soon as they were settled, Margaret would make inquiries around Milton for ways she might help its people. Stephens' admission that his children would starve without his wages stuck a chord with her. What would happen to them? Would he be forced to give them up? A city as large as Milton would have a foundling home. Parents unable or unwilling to care for their children left them anonymously at the home and the children were cared for by matrons. Places like that were always looking for donations and patrons. Margaret did not have money to spare for that kind of assistance, but reasoned that they would no doubt welcome an extra pair of hands.

Here in Milton, where smoke and dirt bled into everything and poverty was everywhere, had made Margaret realize her duty, where London had not. In London, her days had been filled with balls, dress fittings, long walks in the lush green parks. She had been bored and restless. There was no outlet for her energy or ideas at her Aunt's house. But here in Milton, in only a few days, Margaret had felt as though she could breathe deeply for the first time. She felt her mind extend to reach all the things she had thought of and filled away for later use. She knew she had a duty to help others less fortunate than herself. And she wanted the opportunity to learn and grow in a new place and she wanted to help others to do so as well.

.

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.

It did not take the Hale's long to settle into their new home. The landlord had written the next day and agreed to Mr. Hale's terms. The majority of their belongings had been ferried up from Helstone and were due to arrive the following week. In the meantime, Margaret and her mother visited several shops in and around Crampton, purchasing additional furniture and ordering new wallpaper for the house. Dixon visited the house every day to clean and lament its smallness. For once, however, Mrs. Hale ignored Dixon. The excitement of arranging a new house and buying lovely things for it had buoyed her spirits somewhat. She told Margaret that it reminded her of being newly married and arranging one's home with her husband for the first time.

Margaret thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the time spent with her mother during those days. Her mother told her stories of her childhood in Oxfordshire and her first season in London. She asked after Margaret's opinion on almost everything. Margaret also took delight in selecting some things for herself, papers for her bedroom and a new writing desk. She also found a draper shop that sold some beautiful patterns of cloth that she had not encountered before. Margaret used some of her allowance to buy lengths of two fabrics with with to make new gowns; a morning dress and an evening gown.

The furniture was delivered at the appointed time, and Mrs. Hale took great pains in directing it to be placed exactly where she wished it. The house smelt of glue and dust for the first few days, but due to Dixon's attentions and the flowers purchased from the market, the house was soon pleasant. Margaret's bedroom was smaller than her previous one, but her mother remedied that by making a large space in the drawing room for Margaret's armchair and writing desk. Margaret spent a happy afternoon in the study with her father helping him arrange his large collection of books on the shelves. They had playfully argued about many of the titles at such a volume that they almost missed Dixon calling them in for supper.

Unfortunately, after only a fortnight settled into their new home, Mrs. Hale's enthusiasm began to weaver. She found Milton to be far colder than she had anticipated and claimed it affected her movements. To Margaret's dismay, her mother went back to her previous state of unhappiness. Dixon was in her element again. She was forever rushing about to fetch another shawl or a rug for Mrs. Hale, or her reading glasses, some beef tea, her prayer book. Any task she was doing was abandoned in favor of running up to attend to Mrs. Hale's plaintive cries.

The camaraderie that Margaret and her mother had briefly shared was gone. Mrs. Hale did not seek Margaret's help any longer, Dixon saw to her every whim. Margaret did not wish to disturb her father either, as Mr. Hale was absorbed with beginning his new vocation. Eager to make a good first impression, he set out writing detailed lesson plans. He met with the pupils from Mr. Bell's list and explained succinctly what is was that they would study. He assured them of the quality of education they would receive under his tutelage.

No longer needed by her mother and unwilling to disturb her father, Margaret turned instead to Milton. She took long walks through the city, cataloging everything in her mind.

The city was bisected by the Milton ship canal and the river it fed into – the River Parr. In the lower side of the city lay the poorer districts, like Princeton, and the factories. On the other side of the river lay Milton's upper class. This part of the city was designed in such a way that it's residences need never venture over to the working-class side if they had no wish to. Crampton was located just on the very edge of the lower side, close to the stone bridge into the upper-class side. Margaret explored the city on both sides of the river, eager to see how all its people worked and travelled, what they ate and thought.

Housing was well placed for easy access to the factories. The factory whistles blew at precise times each day to alert the public to the time. They sounded at six in the morning for the beginning of the work day, twelve and one o'clock for the midday meal, and again at six at night for the end of the day. Only on Sundays was Milton silent and empty. Walking was the main mode of transport, carts the second. The latter took people to the work that were placed some distance away by necessity, such as the coalfields and the glass factory with its frighteningly hot fires. The food stuffs sold by the street vendors were simple fares – meat pies or bread rolls. There were only a few stores that catered to the upper class, the majority were devoted to the middle and lower. The dress shops for the middle class emphasized utility and plain cut gowns. It was only in the most expensive stores that one could purchase silk fabric or wide crinolines.

She visited the public library to see what stories might be in their minds. Margaret found that many of the books were about industry and economics. Newspapers were delivered daily and there was always a crowd of men in the reading rooms pouring over the latest news from London and America. The library did have a section devoted to poetry and modern novels, but it was less frequented and sparsely stocked.

Most shocking of all was the sheer expanse of energy Margaret felt every time she went outside. The constant hum of the factories that seem to penetrate the earth and stone, and into Margaret's very bones. The urgency that she had first disliked about the city was actually a manifestation of each person's desire to create, design, to produce _something_. Margaret had never considered herself an idle person, but even she felt lazy when comparing herself to the people of Milton. The city itself seemed to compel people to action, and Margaret longed to be one of them.

The feeling of restlessness that Margaret often felt was still there, except this time it was not uncomfortable. It was moving, enticing.

And suddenly, an idea bloomed in her mind.

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During her walking expeditions, Margaret had encountered the Milton Charity Hospital on Clinton Street. She had heard talk about Milton that many of its people could not afford to have a surgeon or even an apothecary to call on them in their homes. Instead, they came to the charity hospital for a wide variety of ailments. Margaret had no experience with sickness, other than her mother's nervous complaints, but found herself drawn to the hospital. She did not know if she would be able to volunteer her time due to a lack of medical knowledge, but resolved to try anyway. She decided that she would meet with the proprietor of the hospital and offer her services.

Margaret awoke early, dressed in a serviceable gown and took extra care pinning her hair. She walked the mile to the hospital feeling pleased with world. She nodded warmly to several people she passed, pleased to now also be someone making her way to an important destination.

The building that housed the hospital was a nondescript one, indistinguishable from those either side of it, except for the words Milton Charity Hospital carved into the stone above the entrance. Margaret walked through a short hallway and entered a ward filled with thirty or so beds, ten of them occupied. A woman in a white cap and apron glanced over at her and, after Margaret's quiet enquiry, directed her to the office of the proprietor, a Mr. Jenkins. Margaret knocked at the door and was quickly admitted. The man seated behind the desk was alarmingly thin and boasted a very large mustache, which seemed even larger due to his hollow cheeks. He smiled at Margaret and motioned to the chair in front of him.

"What may I do for you, miss?" he asked with a faint Scottish brogue.

"Good morning. My name is Margaret Hale. I have just moved to Milton from London. I have been greatly affected by the energy I have seen about the place and so I would like to volunteer my time to your hospital, if there is anything I might do to be useful," said Margaret.

Mr. Jenkins smiled warmly at her. "Of course! The hospital could always use an extra pair of hands. Do you have any medical training?"

Margaret coloured slightly. "I'm afraid I do not. But I do want to learn. I simply want to offer my services in any way I can."

"No matter, no matter. There is always work to be done, rolling bandages, collecting chamber pots, giving out food. The nursing sisters often do not have time to sit with patients or write their letters for them, so you can do that as well."

Margaret smiled. That was exactly what she wanted, something to do that was helping the people of Milton, even if only in some small fashion. Mr. Jenkins stood and Margaret followed suit.

"I can give you a brief tour of the premises now, and you can come back and start tomorrow if you wish. A few hours a week should suit just fine; in the hospital or in the foundling home, which ever you chose." Mr. Drew told her, leading the way out of his office and back towards the ward. Margaret voiced her agreement to the plan and hurried after him. He was a tall man and took two strides for every one of hers. Margaret found herself slightly out of breath trying to keep up.

Mr. Jenkins proved to be a very amenable person, one of the first people Margaret had met in Milton who seemed openly friendly. He had been a surgeon for almost thirty years, trained in Edinburgh. He was an intelligent man and interested in the many advances of modern medicine. He told Margaret proudly that his hospital was one of the first to follow the new procedures for using carbolic acid to clean equipment and one's hands prior to surgery.

The first ward he showed her was a recuperating room of sorts. Patients recovering from a short illness or injury were housed here. The nursing sisters did not spend a great deal of time in here, only to deliver food and remove chamber pots, Mr. Jenkins informed her.

The second ward was where Mr. Jenkins and the nurses spent most of their time. It was smaller than the first. Fifteen beds stood shoulder to shoulder on a raised wooden platform that was built in a U-shape around the room. Shelves full of bottles, bandages and medical instruments stood directly opposite the beds. Large windows were placed at intervals along the walls to let in as much sunlight as possible. There were six patients in this ward. One of them had a cast over his leg and looked miserably at the pair as they past. Another patient looked incredibly malnourished. A nursing sister held his head up and was carefully spooning a thin broth into his mouth.

Mr. Jenkins led her to a small room off of the second ward. He explained that it was used for surgeries. It was devoid of people at present. It contained only a thick wooden bench in the centre of the room with candelabras placed strategically around it. Margaret noted that the scent that she had detected though the other two rooms was strongest here. She couldn't describe what the scent might be. It was a scent of bitterness, of sickness and disease. She could almost see it hanging in the air, taste it in the very back of her tongue.

She followed Mr. Jenkins to a basement kitchen. There were two enormous stoves. One was filled with pots of boiling water, for sterilizing bandages and instruments, he told her. At the other, a woman was hard at work with two assistants, preparing meals for the patients.

"There is also a foundling home attached to the hospital," said Mr. Jenkins. "Not for medical reasons, only convenience. Many of the children admitted to the home are orphaned after their parent dies in the hospital." Margaret was led through a dilapidated courtyard to a second building behind the hospital. Margaret could already hear the shouts and laughter of the children. Mr. Jenkins unlocked a door and he and Margaret stood just inside the room, observing. The room was reminiscent of a school dormitory, only larger, as it combined both sleep quarters and a common room in one. The iron beds were pushed up against the walls, a thin mattress and blanket on each. The children were in the centre of the room and seemed to be causing a great deal of chaos. Margaret hoped it was a recess of some kind and not how the children behaved all the time. Margaret felt sorry for the matron just looking at her exhausted face.

Children of varying ages were accepted, all the way up to fourteen, Mr. Jenkins told her. Several of the inhabitants were babies that had been left at the hospital or at various churches around Milton. They were housed in a small room just off the main one. The older girls worked sewing shirts and burlap sacks. Some of the boys worked as chimney sweeps or in the mills, ferried back and forth by a worker each day. They received a standard education, the schoolteacher paid by donations that members of the Ladies' Aid Society collected, as well as from patrons who donated an annual sum to the hospital and foundling home.

"The schoolteacher, the matron and I are the only people here who are paid. Everyone else is a volunteer, like yourself. The nursing sisters are from St. Catharine's convent down the street. I perform almost all the surgeries and diagnoses myself. If I need, I call in one of the specialists. Some of the other surgeons or apothecaries volunteer their time once a month. There is enough that we always get someone in at least once a day. If not, Sister Hurst, the head ward sister, is also able to undertake some of the duties. I suggest you make friends with her. She is a very capable woman and a fountain of medical knowledge," said Mr. Jenkins. He led Margaret back to his office. "You've not been put off, eh?" he asked her good-naturedly.

"No sir. I look forward to it," Margaret said eagerly.

"Very good. Come back tomorrow morning. I'll start you off following Sister Hurst around. And then the real work begins," he laughed. Margaret smiled at him. She couldn't wait to get started.

That night, Margaret told her parents of her plan while the three of them sat down to supper.

"I think it is a grand plan Margaret," said her father. "As long as your mother can spare you."

"Certainly I can spare her. There's barely enough for Dixon to do in this small house, never mind Margaret," sniffed Mama. Margaret was slightly annoyed by that untruth. Dixon was struggling to perform both the household duties and attend to Mama. Despite their strained finances, another maid must be engaged, if only to spare Dixon's piece of mind. "Are you sure that is what you want to be doing Margaret?" Mama continued. "Spend all day with filthy diseased people?"

"Mama! The hospital is very clean. The proprietor, Mr. Jenkins follows strict standards. He told me there is a procedure to follow for diseased people. It is unlikely I will have anything to do with that side of it. I am only there to clean and attend to the patient's non-medical needs." Mrs. Hale made a non-committal noise in response.

"Speaking of helping others, I have some good news," said Papa. "Eight pupils have agreed to take lessons from me, and I am awaiting the responses of three more."

Margaret smiled widely. "That's fantastic Papa," she congratulated him. "It won't be long now until this house is flooded with your students, once word gets around about how magnificent you are."

Her father went a bit red in the face and said, "Let's not count our chickens until they've hatched. I haven't even conducted my first lesson yet."

"I am certain you will do wonderfully. You are a natural teacher; I'd always thought so when I was growing up," Margaret told him warmly.

Later that night, Margaret helped Dixon with the washing. She made sure that an apron was clean and starched so that she could wear it to the hospital tomorrow. After the kitchen had been cleared, Margaret and Dixon strung twine across the kitchen from which to hang the laundry. Despite the smallness of the backyard, it had a clothesline that was strung from the Hales house to the one behind it. However, it was not able to be used. Margaret got a shock the first time she came out to collect the bed sheets and found that they'd been streaked with black with soot from the mills. As a result, they had taken to hanging the things inside the kitchen overnight, stoking up the fire so that it might dry in time for Dixon to make breakfast in the morning.


	6. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Bounty, being free itself, thinks all other so"

"Tear those into strips, quickly now." Sister Hurst's stern voice cut easily across the ward. Margaret pulled the first sheet of cloth from the stack and tore it into slightly uneven lengths. After Sister Hurst finished bandaging a patient's foot and washing her hands, she came over to help Margaret.

"See how there is very little fiber in the air when you pull them apart? That's how you tell it's of good quality. Less fibers to contaminate the wounds. Made right here in Milton this fabric," she explained proudly. She tore the fabric much more expertly than Margaret did. Margaret raised the edge of her apron to her face briefly, wiping away the perspiration that had gathered on her brow. Margaret had only been at the hospital for a few hours but was already spent. Her leisurely walks had not prepared her body for such exertion! Sister Hurst believed that the best way to get someone to learn something was to toss them straight in, and so Margaret had begun by running back and forth across the ward, fetching instruments and supplies, stacks of bedpans and blankets. She served the noon meal by herself, rushing back and forth between the wards and kitchen while balancing a tray filled with bowls of stew. And even now, Margaret found that a seemingly easy task of tearing cloth to be taking much more strength than she had thought. Already her arms were aching, in addition to her legs.

"You'll get used to it," said Sister Hurst, as though she had heard Margaret's thoughts.

"I'm sure I will. I'll get better with practice, I promise," returned Margaret earnestly. Despite the fact that this was the hardest she'd ever worked in her life, Margaret was pleased, glad to be doing something more rewarding with her morning than paying calls, which is what she would have been doing with Edith in London. Sister Hurst regarded her with a satisfied air.

"I've been watching you closely today. You've got the right temperament for this job. You're sympathetic but without going to pieces. The last volunteer we had here that was one of the uppers like yourself fainted clean away the first time she saw a broken bone," she snorted. "Good thing you're made of sterner stuff."

Margaret smiled ambiguously. She was glad to have pleased the older woman, but she also knew that she had not yet seen anything truly alarming. Margaret felt certain she too would faint if she had to see a limb amputated or anything else that was particularly gruesome. In fact, Margaret had already been startled by a patient's injury, and she hadn't even seen him. She had been delivering mugs of boiled water to the patients in the recuperating ward when an agonizing scream from the surgery frightened her so badly that she dropped all the tin mugs with a crash, drenching herself in the warm water. Sister Hurst had been one of the people in the surgery and had not witnessed the incident. Margaret did not wish to enlighten her to it.

Later, Margaret helped Sister Hurst prepared a poultice of lavender oil and milk to apply to burns on a woman's hands. The oil was particularly pungent. Margaret felt as though stalks of lavender had been thrust up her nose. The patient herself was unfazed by her injury. She'd told them she had barely any feeling in her hands after the last injury to them. Sister Hurst pursed her lips at that, but did not comment. It seemed that many of the poorer people in Milton could not afford medical treatments and were consequently disfigured or had their injuries exacerbated by inadequate care. The patients were always sent home with extra quantities of remedies, but they're was nothing they could do for those that did not come to visit the hospital in the first place.

Margaret and Sarah, one of the other volunteers, were asked to put down new sheets on the vacant beds in the sick ward. Sarah was a tiny woman, almost two heads shorter than Margaret's five feet seven inches. Margaret liked her instantly. She was clever and talkative, and didn't mind Margaret's probing questions about Milton and her family. Sarah's father owned an apothecary, and Sarah split her time between helping him there and working at the charity hospital.

"Papa's promised that I can take over the business when I'm older," she told Margaret proudly. "Because I'm an only child, see, and there's no one else to leave it to, aside from a hideous cousin in Blackpool. That's why I'm here, I want to learn as much as I can." Margaret wished her well. She made a note to try and patronize the shop so that she might help Sarah with her goal. As they went about their task, Sarah explained to Margaret the healing properties of some plants and herbs.

"Willow bark is for fevers, of course. You just boil the dried bark in a tea for a bit and drink three cups a day until it's gone. Chamomile is one of my favorites. It has such delicate flowers and so many uses – itchy skin, nerves, colic. A tincture can be made from deadly nightshade for sore muscles, as well as ulcers. But you have to be careful, because too much will poison you. And poppy's too of course, to make laudanum. We sell quite a lot of that, as so many here are afflicted with lung complaints. Oh, and foxglove! That can be used to treat a weak heart, you know. We made some last year for Reverend Roberts, cleared him up in a trice, that and some brandy…"

At four o'clock, Margaret bid Sister Hurst and Sarah goodbye, the latter being invited over for a visit next week. Margaret wanted to learn more about botany and Sarah promised to bring with her several volumes on the subject. Margaret dragged her feet all the way home. She was sore and exhausted. Her apron and dress looked frightful, having spent the day being splattered with food and various medicines. She wanted to ask Dixon to draw her a bath but loathed to add to her already heavy workload. Instead, Margaret boiled a kettle of water herself and took it up to the wash stand in her room. She stripped off her soiled clothes and scrubbed herself vigorously until her skin was red and shiny. She dressed in a clean nightgown then fell across her bed was asleep almost instantly.

.

.

.

Margaret did not think that her soreness could get any worse, but it had. She awoke the next day to find her back stiff and her leg muscles tight. It took some minutes of stretching before she was even able to lean down to pull her stockings on. Margaret decided to spend the morning with the children in foundling home so that she might have a chance to recover her strength. Surely that task would be less energetic.

How wrong she was. In the years since she'd left her own childhood behind, Margaret had forgotten the speed at which children moved and the volume at which they spoke. She lunged to catch tripping children was encircled in a game of London Bridge against her will. She perused several charges in a game of chase, only to be accidently walloped with a cricket bat for her efforts. The elder boys were off at work, but the younger ones made quite enough noise without them. Bowls were dropped, cries heard, fights broke out. Even during lessons, when the children more or less paid attention, there was still an undercurrent of sound that echoed in the cavernous room. Margaret and the other solitary volunteer, Violet, were run ragged.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Margaret. "Are they always like that?"

"More or less," replied Violet laughing. "I've got five siblings, all younger so I guess I'm used to it."

"Well, despite the bruises and the ringing in my ears, I'm glad to know the children still make their own fun."

"Oh yes. Some foundling homes are all work, work, work. But not here. The matron lets them use up their energies with games in the mornings so that they're quieter for lessons. Then they do their work later in the afternoons. Ordinarily, they would have to do more, but we've got two or three patrons who donate steadily. The Ladies' Aid Society canvas far and wide too, all the way out to the little villages on the outskirts of Milton. This is the only place like it in this part of the county so they make sure it's well funded. The Ladies' Aid is run by a capable woman, a Mrs. Latimer," said Violet.

"And the patrons? Who are they?"

"Oh, some of the wealthy people about town. Mrs. Harley, who's husband owns a lot of the ships and warehouses. Mr. Taylor donates the school supplies every year. And we often get sent the cotton fabric castoffs from the mills, to make the children's clothes."

During a quieter moment, Margaret sat with some of the girls, helping them with their sewing. It was a relief to sit down at last. Margaret could feel blisters forming on her feet after a second day of continuous movement. Conversation flowed easily between the girls. Piecework like this was not a difficult task, and so the girls had ample time to tell stories. Margaret contributed a few of her own, to their amusement.

Margaret's particular favorite of the group was a young girl with carroty hair and a thick Irish drawl. She was only a few years younger than Margaret, too old really, to be in a place like this. Therefore, acted as an unofficial leader. She was forever bellowing instructions to the younger children and was not shy about cuffing the boys when they got rowdy. Margaret asked after her name.

"Keeva. It's spelt C-a-o-i-m-h-e. It's a Gaelic name for gentle," she rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Me mam had a strange sense of humor!"

Margaret smiled. "Do you speak Gaelic?" she asked.

"Aye," said Caoimhe proudly. "Me grandfather taught me, afore he died and I ended up here. Not many people here to speak it to, only Father Patrick and Sister Hurst. And some others at the church."

"I would like to learn, if you are willing to teach me. I've been wanting to be able to read Geoffrey Keating's work on the history of Ireland. It is always described as wonderfully lyrical."

"I wouldn't mind a bit! It'll be great fun. We can start right now!" said Caoimhe eagerly. She spent the next half an hour pointing to various things about the room and naming them. Caoimhe was patient, but Margaret found she was a poor student in the language. She simply couldn't get her tongue around some of the words. Her pronunciations had Caoimhe in tears of laughter.

"Perhaps we ought to stop for today," she grinned. "afore I work myself into a right state." Margaret laughed too, and agreed. She'd been enjoying herself immensely. Even the littlest girls who couldn't understand what was going on had been giggling at their antics. Margaret thought it best to stop in an effort to calm them all down.

"Oh! But afore we do, one last word," Caoimhe's eyes danced. "The Irish say Mairead instead'a Margaret. So maybe I'll call ya that from now on."

"I don't know if I like the sound of that," said Margaret, wrinkling her nose. "It sounds like Maud, and I've always detested that name. One of the most bothersome girls I ever knew was called that."

"I 'ate the name Mary," piped up on of the little girls.

"That's your own name, silly!" squealed another.

"So?" Mary retorted. "You can 'ate your own name. Mine's so common and boring."

"That's not always so," said Margaret, smiling at the pouting girl. "There are Queen and Princesses called Mary. It's a very noble name."

Mary's face lit up. "I dinna know tha'!" Soon all the girls were talking excitedly, demanding to know if they're names were princess names.

"Excuse me."

A hush descended over the group at the interruption, and the girls' mouths dropped open. Margaret looked toward the source of the voice and saw a very elegantly dressed woman had approached the table. She was wearing a stunning green and grey striped walking dress and a bonnet adorned with so many flowers that she looked like a hothouse.

"Good afternoon. I do not mean to interrupt, but I had heard you were one of the new volunteers. Miss Hale was it?" she questioned in a musical voice. Margaret stood up hastily.

"Yes, I am Margaret Hale. I started yesterday." Margaret was suddenly very aware of her untidy hair and red face.

"Excellent. I am Mrs. Latimer. I stopped by today to see the matron and she mentioned your name. I wish to invite you to the Ladies' Aid meeting on Saturday, in my home. We are currently working to procure new coats for the children in time for winter. The ladies and I would love your support."

"Oh yes, of course. I'd be delighted. Thank you for thinking of me," returned Margaret.

"Certainly! Well, I'd best be off. I look forward to meeting you again Miss Hale." Mrs. Latimer turned and glided out the door.

"Margaret," whispered Mary in amazement. "Was tha' one of the Queen Mary's?"


	7. Chapter 5

*A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews so far! To answer the comments: I have deviated from Canon Fred; in my story, he's more of a rogue than a vilified hero. Hopefully you'll like what I've done. Also, I wanted to make Margaret more hard-working, so that she and John would have more in common, and so that she would understand him better.

*A/N 2: All the quotes above the chapters are taken from Shakespeare's work. I couldn't believe how many fit my take on the chapter so accurately!

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Chapter 5

"Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint"

Mrs. Latimer's house was quite a bit outside of Milton. It was on the North side of the river, on the very outskirts of the city where the air was cleaner and the land green. Margaret was obliged to hire a carriage to take her to the house, appropriately named Fairview. It was a large two storey brick house, perfectly symmetrical left and right, complete with one chimney on either side of the roof. A short set of steps led up from the gravel drive to the front entrance. The shiny black door was flanked by two Grecian columns supporting a small overhanging gable. Her knock was answered by a footman, which surprised her. The Latimers must be rich indeed to have male servants wait on them in a place like Milton.

Wanting to make a better impression than her last, Margaret planned her outfit carefully. She wore her new morning gown that she had made from the enticing cerulean print she had found in the drapers. She'd oiled her boots and leather gloves, and carefully arranged a wide ribbon in a bow around her straw bonnet.

She was shown into the parlor where Mrs. Latimer and a few other ladies were gathered. Each new woman introduced to Margaret was wearing a gown more colorful and wider than the last. The ladies were all the wives or daughters of prominent businessmen. They had heard gossip about Margaret and her family, which rather vexed her. It seemed that there were not many secrets amid Milton society, any more than there was in London.

Tea was served, Margaret's dress and Southern accent were admired, her accomplishments asked after and analyzed. Mrs. Latimer informed Margaret that she had a daughter Margaret's age who was away attending finishing school in Switzerland. Despite all the effort she had taken with her appearance, Margaret couldn't help but feel unpolished among these stylish ladies. Edith and Aunt Shaw's tutelage had not clearly not stuck, despite their years of careful effort.

Fortunately, the purpose of the meeting was soon pronounced. Margaret was able to redeem herself by proposing a few new ideas to encourage donations, namely, selling baked goods and flowers in the Lyceum Hall and an amateur concert using themselves and their relatives as performers.

"What a wonderful idea Miss Hale! We could get dressed up in evening gowns and make quite a show of it. Why, you could even sing in the concert," enthused Miss Thomas.

"Lord, no!" blurted Margaret. "I – I am sorry. But I sing very poorly. And I do not wish to sing in front of a crowd."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Latimer pointedly, no doubt disapproving of Margaret's slightly ill-mannered utterance. "Any girl worth anything can sing. Or are you saying a woman raised in London society was not given music lessons?"

Margaret grimaced but was not able to contest the statement. She had indeed been given music lessons by her Aunt, and had been taught to sing and accompany a vocalist on the piano. Her singing voice was the wrong pitch to allow her to be particularly accomplished at the skill; and the less said about her piano playing, the better. She attempted to retract her concert idea, but it was too late. The ladies thought it a splendid notion. It was arranged that the bake sale would be scheduled for the end of August, and the concert for the first week of October. That way, the coats could be ordered and distributed just before the start of the cold months.

Mrs. Latimer informed the group at large that the next meeting would be in a few weeks. "We'll discuss who is to bake which goods for the sale. I will provide the funds for the ingredients. Ladies, make sure you hunt though magazines and such for the latest recipes."

"How clever you are, Miss Hale, to think of such things. Are charity concerts much done in London?" asked Miss White.

"I attended a few such performances, yes. I once had the pleasure of seeing Jenny Lind in _I Masnadieri_ at Her Majesty's Theatre. Miss Lind gave almost all of the proceeds to poor schools in London and Stockholm."

"How delightful! I love Italian opera. Far better than the French," said Miss White, crinkling her nose.

"Oh no, French operas are far superior. The Italian ones are much too heavy-handed," cried Mrs. Latimer.

Margaret did not have much to contribute to this discussion as she had little experience with either style. She did, however, note that Mrs. Latimer disliked not being the centre of conversation, or having her opinions contradicted. That tenacity made her a viable patroness but a rather unlikely candidate to be a particular friend of Margaret's, who disliked that style of person. Margaret also learnt that Mrs. Latimer did not frequent the hospital or foundling home, nor offer any services beyond monetary. Her presence there earlier in the week had been an aberration, her appoint with the matron the cause of it. Margaret did not mind. Mrs. Latimer was an enthusiastic supporter of the foundling home and largely the reason for its continued success.

Margaret had enjoyed the visit, more due to the purpose of it than the people. She was pleased to be asked to be a member and would do so gladly. But she did not think she'd make any close acquaintance of the ladies. They were too flighty and many of them were gossipmongers. Margaret preferred the richer friendships she had begun to make in the girls more like herself, Caoimhe and Sarah.

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Several days later, Margaret sat at her writing desk in the drawing room, attempting to compose a letter to her cousin. Edith had written to her about the wonders of Corfu and the agreeableness of her husband the Captain. She had also taken it upon herself to lament the fact that Margaret had been taken away so far to live in such an awful place. Margaret had put off writing to Edith because she could not think of a way to explain to her what Milton had come to mean to her. It was here that Margaret had realized what she had been lacking. Milton and its people had given her the answer to that feeling of discontentment. She needed to be doing, working towards a goal of some kind.

Margaret picked up her pen, confident she could at least tell Edith about her work at the hospital.

'I've felt what it is to be useful at last Edith. In my first week, I learnt how to boil cloth and roll it to create bandages. I followed the head nurse around, Sister Hurst. She was faster than a whirlwind and just as threatening. I did not mind though, for she is clever enough to get away with it. I helped a poor young man with a broken hand teach himself to eat left-handed. I also saw a baby with colic for the first time, which did distress me so. I never knew a creature that small could make such a sound! Oh but, Edith! I am very happy. Here in Milton I am not expected to attend boring tea parties with the same round of gossip, or dance with insipid men I have no interest in. You know how those things in London irritated me so. I am glad to have a purpose here.'

Margaret could hear her father pottering about in his study above her and she smiled to herself. Her quiet, unassuming Papa seemed to have quite a knack for teaching so far. He had a small but steady number of pupils. Most were the young sons of businessmen in the area who wanted their sons to receive a gentleman's education but who did not have the means or the inclination to send them away to a private school. A small number of pupils were older men, the tradesman themselves who wanted to improve their minds with philosophy and history. Many times, Margaret had heard her father in enthusiastic debate with these pupils, as they wrestled with the teachings of Aristotle and expounded the merits of Italian city-states.

Margaret's pleasant thoughts were interrupted by Dixon clumping into the room, muttering about her father subjecting the family to gossip. Margaret began to feel uneasy. Despite all the progress she and her father seemed to be making in Milton, her mother and Dixon were becoming more and more difficult. Her mother complained ceaselessly about the cold, the crass people. Dixon fuelled her on by exclaiming that there was not one person within fifty miles who was fit to wait on the family. Margaret was pleased that Dixon cared for her mother so diligently and took great pains with the household tasks, but her exacting standards meant that she took on all the work and exhausted herself. Her mother did not seem inclined to insist that another maid be engaged, and her father did not even notice when tea was late or the fires had not been laid.

Lost in her musings, Margaret did not notice that her parents were quarreling, until her mother began to raise her voice.

"I cannot bear it!" she wailed. "That you would tear us away from everything good and happy and drag us here to this God-forsaken place!"

Margaret flinched. Her mother would not hear of Papa's reasoning. It did not matter that she had disliked Helstone, she hated Milton more. She seemed to have forgotten the excitement she had felt when they had first moved in. Nor did it matter that her father had done as he promised, he had found steady work teaching; and a purpose to his life once more. Her mother was forever pushing, never satisfied.

"The people here don't want learning. They don't want books and culture. It's all money and smoke. That's what they eat and breathe." Her mother backed away from her father's outstretched hands. "You gave up your livelihood, our source of income…for _nothing_. You cannot justify it!"

"Maria!" her Father cried. "You know why I had to leave! I no longer felt worthy to be a leader of faith. How can I preach that one must live a good life free of vice if I cannot even keep it from my own family, my own s –."

"No!" Mama screeched, cutting him off. "Do not speak his name, do not blame him! It was you who dragged us here!" Mama began to cry in earnest. She fled up the stairs and to her bedroom, Dixon following closely behind. Margaret put her hand on her father's arm and led him gently to the sofa.

"Don't worry Papa. Mama will calm down soon enough. She always does. I will speak with her. Perhaps I can find some charity work for her to do, something to keep her mind off of Milton… and other things."

Her father looked at her with such hope in his eyes that Margaret's heart broke a little.

"Will you Margaret?" he breathed, "That would be just the think I think. I'm sure that's all she needs. Something to occupy her."

"Yes, Papa. That's all." Margaret sat down next to him. The both stared at the door. Margaret knew, as did her father, that it would not be enough. They both knew exactly what it was her mother needed and it was not something either of them could give her.

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Margaret's new life in Milton fell into a wonderful routine. She took a long walk each morning, exploring a new part of the city. It was almost devoid of parks and other green places, but Margaret did find the cemetery a pleasant place to visit, much to her surprise. It was situated high a top a mountain and had splendid views of the city.

She volunteered at the charity hospital for several hours for two days early in the week and sometimes after church on Sundays. Margaret also spent a few hours at the foundling home. She brought books to read to the children and helped the girls with their sewing. She talked happily with Caoimhe and visited Sarah often, in addition to working with her in the hospital.

The family was forced to sell the piano before coming to Milton, as the house was too small to accommodate it. No longer subjected to that detested pastime, Margaret was now free to devote more of her time to drawing, the activity she truly loved. She walked out often with her sketchbook. She was determined to try to capture Milton's energy and set off to draw several prominent areas. The Cotton Exchange Building, the canals filled with vessels bringing the raw cotton that had been sourced from Egypt and America in from Liverpool. She also ventured into Princeton, the largest of the working class districts, and copied many of the scenes she saw there.

She also spent a great deal of time attempting to engage her mother in various pursuits. So far, she had managed to get her mother somewhat excited about helping her sewing a new coat from a pattern Margaret had altered. Margaret also made sure to spend some time with her father – when he wasn't teaching – chatting about books and politics. Margaret was content and far happier than she had been in London. Her days were full and busy, and Margaret went to bed each night exhausted and pleased with what she had accomplished.

A few weeks after she had begun at the hospital, Margaret came home with an idea brewing in her mind to address the Hales lack of a suitable maid. Several of the older girls in the foundling home, Caoimhe in particular, were in a difficult position. They were too young to be on their own without their parents, but too old to need constant attention as the younger children did. Margaret was thinking of approaching the matron and asking if some of the girls could come and work for her family. That way they could get away from the home for a time, and learn household skills that they could use when they were a bit older and in need of employment. The most difficult part would be getting Dixon and Mama to agree to such a scheme. Margaret decided she would ask Caoimhe for the bulk of her time, and use a younger girl as a scullery maid. The Hales needed someone to sweep and polish and help in the kitchen, to free up Dixon's time. Perhaps Dixon could even teach the girls to cook. Margaret mentally calculated whether her monthly allowance would cover the girls' small wages and wondered if her father might increase it slightly, now that his income was steady.

"Margaret, is that you?" her father's voice called from his study. Margaret leaned into the room and saw her father with his worn copy of Plato in his hands, looking animated.

"Well, Margaret! Come in, Margaret. Come in," he beckoned. Margaret noticed that he was not alone in the room. A tall man with dark hair stood with his back to her. "Meet my new friend and newest pupil, Mr. Thornton. This is my daughter, Margaret."

Mr. Thornton turned to face her and Margaret's smile froze. It was the man from Marlborough Mill! After all these weeks, Margaret had indeed thought nothing of Mr. Thornton or his mill, just as she promised herself. She _had_ enquired at the hospital after a patient Stephens but was told that no patient matching his description had been admitted. And now, suddenly, here was the very man responsible for horrifying incident standing in her father's study.

Mr. Thornton smirked slightly. He'd recognized her as well. "I believe your daughter and I have already met," he told her father.

"Ah!" Papa exclaimed, oblivious to the tension in the room. "Now, Mr. Thornton can't decide between Aristotle and Plato. I suggest we start with Plato, and then move on. What do you think?" he asked Margaret. She opened her mouth but was unable to respond to her father's question. What did one say in the presence of a man whom you had watch beat another man nearly senseless? Detecting her reluctance, Mr. Thornton turned to her father.

"I'm afraid Miss Hale and I met under less than pleasant circumstances. I had to dismiss a worker for smoking in the weaving room." Margaret sucked in a breath, recovering her powers of speech with a vengeance.

"I saw you beat a defenseless man who is not your equal!" she said furiously. That he could describe the incident in such matter-of-fact terms!

"Margaret!" cried her father, shocked.

"No, she's right," Mr. Thornton turned his severe gaze upon her. "I was angry. I have a temper. Fire is the greatest danger in my mill. I have to be strict. It was also not his first offence. He'd been warned several times prior."

Margaret was momentarily disarmed by his frank admission. She expected him to dismiss her reprimand out right. She gathered her wits. "A gentleman would not use his fists on such a pathetic creature, or shout in front of children!"

That statement struck nerve in him. His arrogant countenance gave way to a rising anger. "I dare say a gentleman has not had to see three hundred corpses laid out on a Yorkshire hillside as I did last May. And many of _them_ were children. And that was an accidental flame. The whole mill destroyed in twenty minutes," he snarled.

Margaret's eyes flew wide in shock at that. Three hundred people burned to death. The image his description had forced in her head made her want to retch. Mr. Thornton stepped away from her. Somehow, in their confrontation, they had become alarmingly close. He also seemed to realize that he had distressed her. He sighed heavily.

"I should go." He began to pull on his gloves. Turning to her father, he asked, "You'll join us for dinner next week?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Erm... thank you. We'll…ah… start with Plato next Tuesday," her father, clearly flustered, endeavored to draw Mr. Thornton back into a more familiar topic. Mr. Thornton ignored his attempt and said instead, "I will ask my mother to call ... when you're settled." He turned to Margaret as he spoke, his eyes tightening slightly.

That jab seemed directed at her, but Margaret did not understand the significance of it. Was he making fun of her passionate defense or her distress at his description? Mr. Thornton's frowned deepened.

"Of course... yes." Out of his element once again, her father turned to her for assistance. "We're always here. Aren't we, Margaret?"

Margaret did not answer. Mr. Thornton inclined his head towards them for the briefest moment, before disappearing out the door.

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Later in the week, Margaret visited Sarah at her father's apothecary to return the books she had lent her. Margaret decided to ask her if she knew anything about the mill fire last May.

"Oh yes. That was awful that was. A chain holding a lamp aloft broke, the papers said. The whole room went up like tinder and the rest of the mill was on fire in only a few minutes. It's the cotton fluff, you see. It's in the air all around. Lights up as quick as anything."

"I… I did not think of that," Margaret said quietly. It made sense. After all, candle wicks were made of cotton threads, and those lit up quick enough. "That is why the men are not permitted to smoke in the mills?"

"Certainly not! I can't imagine any who are simple enough to try. Some of the overseers check the men over for pipes before they come in for the day. But not always. As I say, most are not so irresponsible as to put their lives in danger like that," she replied.

In light of this new understanding, Margaret felt slightly ashamed of her heated row with Mr. Thornton. She had misunderstood the gravity of Stephens' offense. Margaret herself had seen the thick flurries of cotton in the mill. She had thought it enchanting, but with this new information, it took on a much more sinister connotation. She now saw that Mr. Thornton had been right to dismiss Stephens, even reprimand him severely. She did not agree with his flogging of the man, but understood why he might be driven to it. One of his own workers might have set his entire mill alight, just from one careless effort. Stephens had also put the lives of everyone else in jeopardy. Perhaps that is why no one tried to do anything. They too knew of the dangers and thought Mr. Thornton within his rights to do as he did.

She wondered if she ought to apologize next time she saw Mr. Thornton, and then decided against it. She still did not agree with his method, and she did not want to get into another disagreement with the man. She resolved to let the matter rest, and treat him more kindly next time. After all, he was now one of Papa's students, and would be coming and going fairly frequently from her father's study. She did not want every encounter between them to be strained, particularly for Papa's sake.


	8. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown"

John Thornton was feeling very out of sorts.

He prided himself on being a disciplined man, as strict with himself as he was with his workers. But ever since he had visited the Hales a few days ago, he could no longer call up his mind's defenses as readily as he had been able to in the past. At odd moments, Miss Hale's look of horror would invade his mind.

He did not regret his actions in the slightest. On the contrary, Stephens deserved far more than what he had given him. As soon as he'd seen the pipe, he'd become incredibly angry. But it was only after Stephens began pleading for his children that John had snapped. He was back at that Yorkshire mill, back on that hillside, the acidic stench of burning flesh invading his senses. The sight of the tiny mangled bodies of the children, their screams of terror going unheeded.

That a man would sacrifice John's entire life's work, not to mention the lives of his employees, for a brief moment of pleasure infuriated him. He was barely aware of what he was doing until he heard a woman's voice begging him to stop.

Margaret.

It was her look of horror that gave him pause. The same look he saw again when, in his anger, he had described to her the very scene that haunted him. She had surprised him too, with her vehemence. She did not know the full implications of such an act, but leapt to the defense of a worker from his master.

In truth, when John called on Mr. Hale with his hopes of becoming one of his pupils, he had forgotten the name of the woman in the mill. Blood pounding in his ears, perhaps he had not heard it in the first place. He was slightly surprised, therefore, when she walked into the room, a ready smile at her lips which then died at the sight of him. It irritated him, that she might judge him without knowing all the facts, when she had not done so with Stephens.

And what had she been doing in the mill in the first place? She had arrived with Williams no doubt, as his overseer had asked her to wait in the office while he searched for John. It was only after he visited Mr. Hale for the first time that he connected the dots, and realized that she had probably visited the mill to ask after his assisting the Hales with looking out a property. He had tried to help them, at Mr. Bell's suggestion, since he knew them to be new to Milton and perhaps ignorant about quality and price in the North.

He'd also, erroneously as it turned out, sent Williams in his stead rather than going himself. If he had completed the errand himself, the angry encounter between himself and the woman with the clever eyes might never have happened. But it had been the final day to finish an order of cotton from London and he'd been anxious that it should be completed at the appointed deadline.

John had passed on the invitation to his mother and Fanny to visit. His mother thought no more of his clipped response, believing his statement that he'd had a difficult day at work. It was not a lie after all, merely an omission of the true cause of his disquiet. It seemed to irk Miss Hale too, that he would send his mother and sister to visit. Was she so disgusted with him that she did not want to aquatint herself with any member of his family?

He couldn't believe this young woman had affected him so! He knew nothing about her and yet spent the past few days watching almost all of his interactions through her eyes. John saw her horrified expression in his mind every time he shouted at his employees in reprimanded for idleness or errors. He saw that he was harsh and severe. He heard how rough his northern accent sounded compared to her clear one.

He'd never had cause to think of how he appeared to others. His anger, his coldness. Those emotions were what made him good at what he did. It was how he was able to be so successful in his business. If he had gone to pieces every time something unfortunate happened in his mill, he'd have failed years ago. A cotton mill was an unforgiving business; it took an unforgiving man to control it.

Tonight, he was determined to put the woman out of his mind once and for all. He sat at his desk in his office, adding figures to the ledgers. It was a task that required concentration. This work was something he always found soothing, particularly after a hard day. It was a relief to lose himself in numbers, where everything was black and white and balanced. There was no sound other than the scratching of his pen upon the paper and the quiet hiss of the candle.

Soon however, John found himself gazing, not at the pages in front of him, but around his office. He began to see it as she must have. It clearly belonged to a man of action not of leisure. There was nothing in this room that might be used for amusement, not even the books. To be fair, this was his office at the mill where he conducted his business, but even so, his library at home was not much different. His life consumed by work, he had no time to cultivate any particular pastime. He did not hunt or ride, nor did he enjoy dancing. He far preferred to spend his limited leisure time losing himself in a good book or attend lectures at the Lyceum.

He saw his life as a woman from the South might, and found it lacking. No doubt she was used to man who were cultured and educated. Miss Hale's admission that he was not a gentleman rang in his ears. He knew he was not a gentleman. He was not born to wealth; he had earned it. This was disliked in the South, where they valued lineage and history. They would look down on a fierce, fatherless, once destitute pauper like himself.

John ran his hands down his face, pressing the palms of his hand into his eyes in an effort to dispel his thoughts. He was proud of what he had achieved. He'd pulled himself up from nothing, rising up from blackened ash, clawing his way into wealth and property. He was now one of the richest men in Milton, owing all to his own two hands and the tenacity of his mother. The wide-eyed look of one young woman should not affect him in such a way.

John lent back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Miss Hale's bright, expressive eyes danced across his vision, taunting him. John growled and stood abruptly, the legs of the chair hitting the floor with a resounding bang. He picked up his coat and stalked out the door, resolving to finish the ledgers tomorrow morning.

No, John Thornton did not like feeling this way.

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A loud clattering outside on the street had Margaret and her mother hastening to the window to see what the commotion was. Down below, two elegantly dressed women, one elder, one younger, were descending from a beautiful carriage pulled by a matching pair of bay horses.

The elder woman stood on the sidewalk and looked at the Hales home with her mouth pressed into a line of distaste. The young woman, who was as colorful as the other was dark, was struggling with her wide gown. Once she had successfully alighted the carriage, she gave a little wiggle to settle her dress about her frame and patted her hair to make sure not a strand was out of place.

"It must be Mr. Thornton's mother come to call," Mama whispered to Margaret. Even though it would be impossible for Mrs. Thornton to hear them, Margaret found herself mimicking her mother's lowness in voice. Something about the stern brow of the mother made Margaret feel rather nervous. She wondered what it would been like to have such an imposing person for a mother. Nothing about her seemed to suggest maternal affection.

"And that must be the sister," Margaret whispered back. "She doesn't look at all like I was imagining."

"No she does not. A parrot among two black ravens," snorted Mama.

Margaret grinned. It was an apt observation. With such dower relations, it was no wonder that Fanny Thornton put great stock in standing out. One certainly wouldn't miss her standing next to her more formidable mother and brother. Mama turned to Margaret, a sudden look of alarm on her face.

"Where will we put them? I don't think the two of them will fit in here," said her mother frantically. Margaret laughed at the absurdity of her mother's comment, but did shift the sofa and an end table as her mother bid her. The party below rapped smartly on the door. Nerves fluttered in Margaret's stomach. This was the very thing Margaret hated doing, entertaining guests over tea. Particularly when there was no set subject to address, like there was when she went to the Ladies' Aid meeting. She felt her face redden with embarrassment as she remembered all the awkward stilted tea parties she'd attended with Edith and her Aunt. She felt sure she would embarrass herself again today.

Dixon, for once appropriately subdued, showed the two guests into the parlor where Margaret and her mother were seated.

"Do sit down," Mrs. Hale said, smiling slightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. My husband speaks highly of Mr. Thornton."

"It is good to meet you," returned Mrs. Thornton. She arranged herself gracefully on the sofa opposite Margaret and her mother. Fanny took the armchair next to Margaret, having to shove herself into it slightly in an effort to fit herself and her many layers into the thin chair.

Mrs. Thornton was tall like her son, with the same dark hair and sharp features. She exuded an air of elegance and smugness. She was dressed in widow's fashion, with the ease of one who had been doing so for many years. Fanny on the other hand, was light and fair. She was much younger than her brother, younger even than Margaret. Margaret could see no resemblance between Fanny and Mrs. Thornton, save for the distasteful look that Fanny also had on her face upon entering the room. Her appraisal of the two women did nothing to calm Margaret's nerves. She wondered how she might engage two vastly different women into a conversation.

Dixon came in and set the tea tray down. Mama poured the tea in silence. She seemed to have exhausted her desire for conversation. Margaret picked up the plate of dainty cakes and offered it to Fanny. Fanny reached out to take one, but then reconsidered with a moue of faint disgust and put her hand back down in her lap. Mrs. Thornton sipped her tea and glowered at Margaret's amateur paintings that hung on the walls. It made Margaret even more anxious to realize that neither of the two women wanted to be here. As her mother seemed unwilling to continue the conversation, Margaret cast about desperately for a topic.

"How exquisite," Margaret said faintly, indicating to the intricate bodice on Mrs. Thornton's dress. Clothing was a comfortable topic was it not? Women always liked to talk about their favorite dressmakers and their view on the latest fashions. It had been so in London.

"Yes indeed. I haven't seen English pointwork quite like that for years," Mama piped up, drawn into the conversation despite herself. Mrs. Thornton pressed a hand to her bodice and regarded Margaret smugly.

"Our Milton craftsmanship can compare with the very best."

Margaret was unsure how to respond. The comment did not leave much room for discourse. If anything, it seemed to Margaret as though Mrs. Thornton disapproved of her. Why, Margaret could not fathom. She'd had no interaction with the woman prior to this and they knew nothing about each other. Fanny suddenly spoke up.

"I suppose you are not musical, as I see no piano."

Margaret latched on to the new subject. "I am fond of music, but I cannot play well myself," Margaret groaned inwardly. Revealing one's deficiencies was hardly a good idea. Margaret hurried on, "As you can see, this house would hardly bear a grand instrument." Margaret clasped her hands together tightly. She'd simply replaced one terrible comment with an even worse one! She was saved from continuing as Fanny almost talked over her.

"Yes, these rooms are far too small for entertaining. Our staircases are wider than the whole width of this room!" she exclaimed boastfully. Mrs. Thornton gave Fanny a stern look of reproach but Fanny didn't notice.

"I wonder how you can exist without a piano. It almost seems to me a necessity of life," said Fanny with great solemnity.

Margaret did not know what to make of that observation. It seemed to her as though Fanny was reciting it from a book or line of poetry. Should Margaret ask after the author? If she was mistaken, then she would embarrass herself even further. Margaret fidgeted in her seat and tried again.

"There are concerts here I believe?"

"Oh, yes. Rather crowded. They let in anybody. But we have whatever is the fashion in London. A little later, unfortunately." Fanny lamented. She brightened suddenly. "You know London, of course."

"Yes. I lived there with my aunt and cousin for some years," Margaret responded, relieved to have engaged Fanny in conversation at last.

"Oh! London and the Alhambra. They are the two places I long to see," said Fanny wistfully.

"The Alhambra?" Margaret repeated. Fanny's Northern accent had bled into the word, making Margaret sure she had misheard her. Was she really speaking of Alhambra in Spain? Had Margaret found a kindred spirit in the unlikely form of Fanny Thornton?

"I desperately wish to see it. Do you know it?" questioned Fanny.

"Yes!" exclaimed Margaret excitedly. She leaned forward and spoke energetically to Fanny. "Wasn't Isabella just magnificent? The tale of the capture of Grenada has always fascinated me, how everything seemed to work in their favor during the campaign, as though God himself was aiding them just as Isabella said he was. What was it that the Sultan's mother told him after he lost the city to her? 'Do not cry like a woman for what you could not defend as a man'. I wish I could say things of such substance…"

Margaret trailed off, as she noticed Fanny staring at her with a shocked expression. Even Mama looked taken aback by Margaret's enthusiasm. Understanding struck, and Margaret realized too late that Fanny was speaking of the Alhambra Theatre in Leicester Square, not the palace in the Spanish city. Face flaming, Margaret, attempted to change the subject.

"Oh... I don't…," Margaret cleared her throat. "but it's a very easy journey to London and not half so far."

Fanny looked pityingly at her and followed her lead. "Yes, but Mama has never been to London. She cannot understand why I long to go. She's very proud of Milton," Fanny lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Dirty, smoky place that it is. I can't _wait_ to leave."

Mrs. Thornton set her tea cup back on its saucer with a clatter, having had enough of Fanny and Margaret's conversation. She turned to Mrs. Hale.

"May I ask why you chose to come and live in Milton? I mean, why did you leave…wherever it was you are from?" she inquired grimly, as though the Hale's actions had personally offended her.

"Helstone," Mama informed her, her voice tinged with sadness. Mrs. Thornton looked at her pointedly. Mrs. Hale continued, choosing her words with care. "Well, it... it, it was my husband's decision. It was a matter of... of conscience. A deliberate choice,' she amended, "to undertake a new vocation."

"But Mr. Hale is no longer a clergyman, I thought," stated Mrs. Thornton cuttingly, with the air of having caught Mrs. Hale in a lie. Mama looked down at her lap, her expression grim. Margaret's heart ached as she watched her mother try and keep her composure. This was a painful subject for her. Mama clenched her teeth. She did not want to continue with this line of questioning and resolutely changed the subject.

"My husband very much enjoys his lessons with Mr. Thornton. I think it makes him feel young again," she informed Mrs. Thornton, attempting a smile. Her expression faltered as she saw Mrs. Thornton's own darken at her words.

"Classics are all very well for men who loiter their lives away in the country or in colleges. But Milton men ought to have all their energies absorbed by today's work. They should have one aim only," expounded Mrs. Thornton. Seeing that she had Margaret and Mrs. Hale's attention, she continued. "Which is to hold and maintain an honorable place amongst the merchants of this country." She straightened in her seat and her proud expression returned. "Go where you will, the name of John Thornton in Milton, manufacturer and magistrate, is known and respected amongst all men of business. And," she continued, even more boastfully, "sought after by all the young women in Milton."

"Not all of them, surely," Margaret laughed prettily, as Edith had taught her. Her mother twittered as well. Margaret's faux smile disappeared quickly, seeing the look of severe disapproval Mrs. Thornton bestowed upon the pair of them.

"If you had a son like mine, Mrs. Hale, you would not be embarrassed to sing his praises," she bit out.

Margaret stifled a gasp and snapped her gaze to Mama. Her mother had gone very pale. Mrs. Thornton did not seem to notice the pain she had just unknowingly inflicted.

"My son has done extremely well for himself," she continued severely. "His empire has been built entirely on his own merit."

Margaret could not reply, silenced by shock and embarrassment. Her fly-away comment about Mr. Thornton was exactly the type of vapid thing a society Mama would expect Margaret to make about her son. The mother would expel his virtues and Margaret would deny them so as not to seem overly eager, all the while the two of them would be secretly sizing the other up. But Mrs. Thornton did not act this way. Margaret's tasteless comment seemed to give her real offence. Mrs. Thornton was also wholly unaware of the hurt she had inflicted upon Mrs. Hale.

Mrs. Thornton stood abruptly. "If you can... bear... to visit our dirty, smoky home," she said with a glance at Fanny, "we shall receive you next week."

Mrs. Thornton bowed her head in the briefest of nods and turned and exited the room. Fanny trailed behind, bestowing a final look of pity upon Margaret. The two ladies left unceremoniously, completely unaware of the agony and embarrassment they had left in their wake. Margaret went to her mother's side.

"She knows," Mama moaned, "she knows about Frederick."

"No Mama, she does not. She would have never come to visit us if she knew of such a thing." Margaret attempted to soothe her mother's frayed nerves. Mama reached over and gripped Margaret's hand tightly between her own. The two of them watched their undrunk tea cool, as they both wept silently for the son and brother that was so far beyond their reach.

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*Authors Note: Alhambra Theatre wasn't built until 1854 but I couldn't resist putting this anecdote in. Poor Margaret!


	9. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Corruption wins not more than honesty"

John and his mother stood shoulder to shoulder on the balcony, watching the men in the courtyard load bales of cotton from the carts into the mill. It was too late in the day for this kind of work, with the sun almost set. But there had been some strife at the docks that delayed the unloading of the bales. John had also had a disagreement with the importer about the agreed upon price, the importer insisting that he was owed more than John had recorded in his book. It took a long while before the matter had been settled which put John in an even fouler mood than he had been this morning. He'd had that nightmare again. The one where his workers or his mother were trapped in the burning mill screaming for him while he pounded uselessly on the doors in an effort to force them open. The dream always left him drenched in sweat with a sick feeling in his stomach.

Last night's dream had left him feeling particularly fearful, for more than one reason. For the first time, it was Miss Hale who screamed desperately for help. John had been shocked awake by the horror of it. Despite the absurdly earlier hour, John had dressed and gone to the mill. Several hours of work had been enough to erase the new dream from his mind. At least, that is what he tried to convince himself.

Why had he dreamed of Miss Hale? John couldn't believe it was caused by their encounter in her father's study, that had been an angry confrontation on both sides. John thought it unlikely to have caused his subconscious to place her in the role of damsel. Perhaps he was thinking too much. Giving too much weight to his dreams. He had never done so before and was determined not to start now.

The gong in the courtyard sounded as someone outside the gates pulled on the chain. Williams opened the gate to admit Mr. Hale, who had come for dinner at John's invitation. During their first lesson, Mr. Hale had expressed a desire to learn more of cotton manufacture in Milton and John had readily obliged him. John and the other mill owners in Milton met for dinner together in the house of one of their fellows at least once a month.

This month John was acting as host and invited Mr. Hale along. John hoped Mr. Hale's enthusiasm might pull him from his irritability. A dinner party would at least force John to be civil in any case. Mr. Hale waved enthusiastically at John and his mother and John raised his own hand in response. His new tutor was a very easy man to like. He was animated and knowledgeable, and did not seem to have a pretentious bone in his body.

John and his mother turned away from the balcony and went into the drawing room to receive their guest.

"Mrs. Thornton. John. I thank you kindly for inviting me," said Mr. Hale warmly, shaking hands with them both. What a splendid house. But, do you not find the proximity to the mill a little, well, noisy?" asked Mr. Hale curiously.

"Never," said Mrs. Thornton proudly. "I've not become so fine as to forget the source of my son's power and wealth. The mill is everything. There is no other factory like it in Milton. This house is my son's achievement."

John was slightly embarrassed by his mother's praise, as always. But he was also proud of what he had achieved and glad that his mother was as well.

"You find the noise here ceases to be a problem if you spend a long enough time here," John explained. "it is the lack of noise that is alarming. It means something is amiss."

Mr. Hale's reply was interrupted by the arrival of Watson and Hamper, two other mill owners. Mrs. Thornton greeting them and then excused herself and retreated to her parlor. She never partook in these dinners with her son. Despite how proud she was of her son's occupation Mrs. Thornton could not tolerate some of the other mill owners. The next few minutes were a flurry of introductions and much good-natured ribbing amongst the men as more of the guests arrived. Dinner was soon announced. John led the way into the dining room and sat at the head of the table.

Conversation flowed easily between all the men. John was pleased to see that Mr. Hale was seated next to Henderson, one of the kinder men of John's acquaintance. He knew he would make Mr. Hale feel more at ease. Slickson suddenly called down the table at John.

"Did I tell you, Thornton, about the price of raw cotton I found in Le Havre?"

"I believe you did," returned John, slightly irritated. The man had spoken of almost nothing else since he'd heard of it. Slickson was undeterred.

"Come on, Thornton. Even you can spot a bargain when you see it. Cotton's a great deal cheaper from the Caribbean than from Egypt."

"I bet you American cotton is still much cheaper," supplied Hamper.

"I don't believe they can offer those prices for long," John insisted. "They'll be bankrupt in a year and we'll have our supply interrupted. I'd rather pay more and have a steady supply through Liverpool. The others can do as they wish."

"Thornton's as straight as they come. He won't risk Marlborough Mill in any risky enterprise, even if it means passing up the chance to speculate," Henderson told Mr. Hale in undertone. John scowled. All the mill owners were always on his case about his methods. Some thought him too moral, but that wasn't it at all. John simply detested speculations and had no tolerance for those that engaged in risky behaviours. Mr. Hale attempted to defend John.

"But that's the best way surely, with so many lives depending on the factory's continued success? Well, that would be the Christian way," said Mr. Hale. The other men around the table suppressed grins at his naivety.

"By the way, did everyone hear the latest over clamoring for a new wheel?" Watson asked the table at large.

Henderson frowned. "I thought you'd agreed to the wheel," he said.

"Yeah, well, I had," agreed Watson. "First the men threatened to turn out if I didn't install the infernal thing, which would've cost me six hundred pound." There were exclamations of sympathy and incredulity around the table.

Henderson turned again to Mr. Hale, sensing his confusion. "The wheel blows away the strands of cotton that flies off in the sorting and carding rooms. It helps keep the fluff off the workers' lungs. It doesn't stop it, but it does help." Henderson told him.

"So, what was the problem?" demanded Hamper.

Watson continued, relishing the attention. "Well, some of the workers started claiming they'd need more money to work in a place with a wheel." Several of the men shouted in disbelief.

"Yes, believe me. They'd heard it'd make 'em hungry. Even hungrier than they claim they always are!" laughed Watson. He was enjoying himself immensely, John thought. He loved being the cause of disagreement.

"The wheel would make them hungry?" asked Henderson incredulously.

"Yes, I swear! Some of them said that if I put the wheel in, there wouldn't be so much fluff to swallow, so their bellies'd be emptier. Oh yes, so... oh, and this is the beautiful part...," Watson leant forward in his seat with the air of someone about to reveal a great joke. "They were saying I'd have to pay 'em more. And now the men are split amongst themselves and can't agree to what they want, so, I've been spared six hundred pound. And the men have only themselves to thank for the carding rooms being like Christmas every day with all that sneezing." Watson and several others gave shouts of laughter. Mr. Hale smiled weakly, not understanding. Thornton frowned. Seeing this, Slickson piped up, "Oh come on Thornton. Surely you wouldn't approve of your workers telling you what to pay 'em?"

"I've had the wheel in all my sheds for these past two years," Thornton informed the group. He saw Mr. Hale beam proudly at him.

"More fool you," grumbled Watson, annoyed that Thornton had not responded to his story. "I can't see profit in it."

"There is no immediate profit," Thornton corrected. "None that you can count in pounds, shillings and pence."

"But... well, there is a 'but,' in't there?" asked Hamper, smirking at John.

" _But_... my workers are healthier. Their lungs don't clog so easily. They work for me longer. Their children work for me longer. Even _you_ can see the profit in that," John said. He saw Mr. Hale's face fall.

"But surely, it's the right path, also," said Mr. Hale, in a slightly beseeching tone.

"Sound business sense, Mr. Hale, and I cannot operate under any other moral law. I do not run a charitable institution," John declared. "My workers expect me to be hard, but truthful. I always tell them how things are and they either take it or they leave it." John felt that he had disappointed Mr. Hale slightly with this explanation. But John was not going to apologize for the way he ran things. Mr. Hale, although becoming a friend, was not a businessman. Nor did he have any instinct for the trade as John did.

"Harkness is always tryin' little tricks with his workers," Hamper chortled. Harkness did too.

"You've got to keep them on their toes. It's a war, and we masters have to win it or go under," he snickered.

John scowled at that. It was that very way of thinking that caused trouble among the workers in Milton. The workers' livelihoods were often at risk, so changeable was the nature of the cotton industry. Adding to this the spitefulness of masters like Harkness, the workers were constantly on tenterhooks about their employment and their wages. In fact, the worker's union had attempted to organize a strike a few years ago. It was over in only a matter of days as hunger and the threat of eviction from their homes had driven half of them to return to work. The masters had triumphed and had not lost profits nor had to increase wages. John was glad of that. The workers were often uneducated and did not understand the impact a strike had upon the mills, how it hurt the workers most of all.

The union was run by men who had a knack for rhetoric that provoked rage and discontentment among the men, and coerced them into following a cause they knew little about. The leaders had their own agenda and used impressionable men to do their bidding. The union also demanded its members to pay dues to belong to the system, which John thought counterproductive. Why give some of your hard earned money to an organization that cares little for your welfare and then turn to the masters and say you did not have enough money to live on? And, most absurd of all, if the workers caused a mill to become bankrupt with their strike, then they'd be out of a job altogether.

He had no authority to forbid his workers from spending their money on whatever they wanted but, in an effort to dissuade his employees from joining the union, John had increased their wages some months after the strike talk had disappeared. He had examined his accounts and reasoned that a rise in wages was not a hardship to him. He'd waited until the strike had completely died away so that his employees did not think he was responding to it. Laborers at Marlborough Mill were one of the highest paid in Milton, if not in all of the county.

John also made an effort to always be truthful with his workers. He told them exactly when they would be paid, how many hours they were expected to work. If he did have to go back on his word, he made sure to explain the reason. He passionately disapproved of how some of the other masters ran their mills, more as a lark than an enterprise, their workers no more than cogs in the machine and the source of their entertainment. Harkness in particular was prone to this. He was a rich man who ventured into cotton ten years ago in an effort to make himself richer. It worked, but at the expense of his workers' welfare. He was not a particular friend of John's as a consequence.

The dinner ended without incident. The plates cleared away and the port and cigars brought out. Mr. Hale declined the cigar, as did John. John indulged but rarely in this custom. The scent of the tobacco reminded him of smog and uncleanliness. His mother detested the habit; she said it took days to air out the room after one of these dinners.

After the appropriate time, his guests took their leave. Mr. Hale shook John's hand warmly. John was glad to still receive the kindness of the gentleman despite their differences in opinion earlier in the evening. He arranged that he would schedule his lessons with Mr. Hale on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings. John knew it was very likely that he would see Miss Hale during these times. He was unsure how he felt about that. Despite their rather impolite dealings with each other in the past, he found himself inexplicitly drawn to her. He did not think it was just because she was attractive. Indeed, John had met far prettier and more fashionable women than her before.

Perhaps it was because of their strained encounters, rather than in spite of them. She'd confronted him and was honest about what she thought. An honest man himself, John admired the trait in others. He resolved that he would let himself have an open mind where she was concerned. He would not bring up past dealings with her, and instead be as polite and amenable as he knew how. If he did this, maybe it would allow him to become more aware of his feelings and then point him as to what he should do next.

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"A waif from a charity home waiting on this family?" exclaimed Dixon, appalled.

"They are not waifs, Dixon. It won't be anything too difficult, only scrubbing and polishing. And you need the help," Margaret wheedled.

"Not so badly that I'll let strays into the house! Poking through everything and putting their grubby hands all over the silver. Why, they'll probably rob us blind!"

"Dixon!" groaned Margaret. "They'll do no such thing. We've nothing worth stealing anyway. At least let us try the experiment? The matron has already agreed to the plan and I'd hate to disappoint her." Dixon hesitated, then grudgingly acquiesced. Margaret knew it was a testament to how overworked she was that she had even agreed at all. In her irritation, Dixon would be sure to chivvy the girls into fine housemaids in no time.

Margaret, having obtained Dixon's consent, took herself to the foundling home the next day to speak with the matron. Margaret outlined her plan of employing Caoimhe for the majority of the work, and a younger girl as a scullery maid. Caoimhe was overjoyed to leave the home and eager to please Margaret. Anne, the younger girl chosen for the first month's rotation, was also keen to get out of sewing shirts. Margaret gave them each a new dress and apron to use a uniform, the younger girl requested to return it after her month was up so that it could be used by the next girl. Mr. Hale had agreed to the wages Margaret had suggested; of thirteen shillings a month. This was a paltry sum compared to what they might earn in the mill for the same amount of time, but the work would be easier, the hours not as long. Due to the fact that all of the girls would have an opportunity to work in the house, the matron would allow them to keep five of the shillings for themselves, the rest of the sum going to the maintenance of the home.

Margaret also presented her plan to Sarah, who willingly agreed to use the scheme in her own house as well. As Sarah was more connected with the general public than Margaret was by way of her father's business, she also suggested she be the one to arrange permanent placements for the girls once their training was completed.

Margaret was pleased her plan had come to fruition, happy to be helping those in need. She and Caoimhe were fasting becoming good friends, despite their differences in position. She had taken Margaret's request to learn Gaelic very seriously and was always looking for opportunities to teach her. Due to her drilling, Margaret was now able to recognize many words and phrases, though speaking it herself still proved challenging. Neither English or French, the only languages Margaret was fluent in, had any of the same groupings of sound or pitch. It was fun though, and Margaret and Caoimhe passed many hours talking back and forth this way while they went about their chores.

Margaret and her mother had paid the reciprocal visit to Mrs. Thornton and Fanny a week after their own. It had not been a success. Mama looked forlornly around the Mrs. Thornton's cluttered parlor, her sad face reflected endlessly in the room's many gilded mirrors. Margaret knew Mama was silently comparing the lavish room with its high vaulted ceiling to her own tiny parlor in Crampton.

Margaret, in an effort to not embarrass herself again, resolved to say as little as possible. Mrs. Thornton was a dour woman by nature and not given to idle chatting. Margaret had hoped that Fanny would carry the conversation as she had done previously, but this time Fanny seemed to be in a mood of some kind and did not play the part. The result was a very quiet affair.

Margaret did not know how she felt about about the room. It was elegant certainly, with many expensive furnishings, but also had a distinctive gothic air. Black urns and other unusual curios littered the shelves. A grandfather clock ticked obnoxiously in the corner. In the centre of the room stood a large ebony ottoman. Mrs. Thornton blended into the décor seamlessly, right down to the ornate onyx jewelry she wore. Fanny, on the other hand, clashed alarmingly with it. Her dress was a fussy number, made out with a great many frills and done in a queasy shade of lemon. Fanny made a show of sipping delicately from her china cup, placing it with care back to the saucer each time.

When it came time to take their leave, neither party was quite sure how to proceed. It was clear to both sides that they were unsuited to regular calls, but nor did they want to cut the family out altogether, as they had a particularly important connection among their menfolk. Mrs. Thornton solved the dilemma by providing a vague approximation for the next tea, which left both sides able to forget that it had been arranged.


	10. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt"

The following Thursday after their lesson had been concluded, Mr. Hale invited John for tea in the drawing room, the tray being delivered by a disheveled young girl who set it down with slightly too much force. They chatted amicably about their respective days and mutual acquaintance. John was reminded that Mr. Bell was a college friend of Mr. Hale's. John was not fond of Mr. Bell. He was meddlesome and ostentatious in his eccentricities. He was forever pushing himself into other people's affairs and loved nothing more than creating unease amongst people. Fanny thought him great fun and so he was consequently invited over a number of times to the Thornton's, much to John and his mother's distaste. It was only his wealth and connections that kept his reputation from moving from bizarre to insane. He owned several properties in Milton and in Oxford. Thankfully, he spent most of his time in Oxford at the university, at which he was a professor of literature. John wondered how Mr. Hale had become friends with a man that was his polar opposite. He supposed it was because they had first become friends when they were very young men, before their characters had completely developed.

John could hear Mrs. Hale and her daughter talking in the parlor next door. He could not make out the words, but Mrs. Hale's shrill voice and Miss Hale's cajoling replies suggested a quarrel. Mr. Hale confided in John that his wife was displeased with their move, and that Miss Hale had been attempting in vain to help her adjust. John asked what prompted the move but Mr. Hale had only given him the same vague answer that John's mother had received. Mindful of the apparent sensitive nature of the subject, John did not press him. After a while, the noise in the next room ceased and Miss Hale came into the drawing room in a huff.

"Oh! Forgive me, Papa. I did not know you were with a pupil." She went to retreat, but Mr. Hale waved her in.

"No matter, no matter. We were finished for the day. Sit down and have some tea with us," he replied heartily. Miss Hale went to the writing desk in the corner and retrieved a book that lay there, before seating herself on the sofa. "We were just talking of Mr. Bell."

"Ah. Yes." Miss Hale's expression spoke volumes about what she thought of the man. Apparently she too was less than pleased by the things knew about him. They had that in common, John thought wryly. Miss Hale seemed subdued from her earlier dealings with her mother, and other than brief comments, she did not engage herself much in the conversation. John did not mind, he and Mr. Hale spoke more than enough for the three of them. Miss Hale was soon absorbed in her book. John glanced furtively at the title and saw that it was a volume on genealogy of Prussian Kings. It seemed Miss Hale was a scholarly as her father. John smiled to himself.

Miss Hale offered to refresh everyone's cups. She asked politely how John took his tea. It seemed as though Miss Hale had put their previous quarrel behind her, as John had, and he was glad of it. Rehashing old arguments would be counterproductive to his current plan of exploring these strange new feelings she had evoked within him.

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A loud knock on his office door at the mill pulled John from his work. He barked a sharp order to enter, irritated at being disturbed this late in the evening. His expression cleared when he saw that it was a police inspector.

"Good evening Mr. Thornton. I am sorry to disturb you at your place of work," he said, removing his hat. He looked nervous. John had not met this man before so he must be new to the constabulary.

"No matter. What can I do for you?"

"I am after a search warrant Mr. Thornton. The man in question has been detained at the county lock up. He denies the theft of which he is accused, and we need to search his residence."

"Of course. Do you have the document?" The inspector handed John the formal search warrant that needed a magistrate's signature in order to be carried out. The suspect was accused of stealing six pounds, five shillings' worth of goods from his employer. John's eyebrows raised at the excessive amount.

"Where is the suspect employed?" he asked the inspector.

"The cobbler's store in Wellington." An expensive store, perfectly able to stock goods that could have amounted to this much.

"Has the man been accused of crime before?"

"No sir. And he is most distraught at having been now. I questioned him at length. He has a wife and three children; he's always had steady employment. His associates at the workshop tell me that he is a cordial person and well-liked. It is my suspicion, sir, that he is not the true offender since he doesn't seem the type, but his employer has accused him most insistently. I need the search warrant to confirm my theory."

"Indeed. Most puzzling." John glanced at the inspector, his respect for the man growing. "I am impressed by your dedication. What is your name?"

"Mason, sir."

John signed the document and handed it back to Mason. He then stood and shook the man's hand. "Good luck with your investigation. If it does not come before the quarter sessions, I wish to hear the outcome; once your investigation is concluded."

"Of course sir. Thank you for your assistance," replied Mason. The inspector hurried for the mill, clearly eager to get back to his job. John was glad of it. Milton needed a dedicated police force, especially ones that were thorough.

John was glad to help also, even if search warrants were a rather boring part of his magistrate duties. He was usually summoned to the courtrooms to decide petty offences; theft, burglary, bodily harm. He imposed sentences on the offenders or referred the case to quarter sessions, or the assizes courts if it was beyond his jurisdiction. The quarter sessions were the most interesting of his duties; held every January, April, July and September. He and two other magistrates – one of them a stipend magistrate trained in law – sat in court for a week, sometimes more if the docket was longer, and heard all the referred cases together.

John had been one of the youngest lay magistrates ever appointed in the county, having been appointed four years ago at the age of five and twenty. It was a great honor to be chosen, and he was gratified by the accomplishment. He thought that his personality was well-suited to the law; he was logical and analytical. And he was dedicated. Although his appointment required no legal training, John took it upon himself to be well acquainted with the workings of the law and sentencing.

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Sitting in Mr. Hale's study, John could hear laughter outside. Glancing out through the windows, he saw Miss Hale and a red-headed girl talking and giggling together while doing the laundry in the fading light. John was surprised to see that Miss Hale undertook chores of this kind. As he watched, Miss Hale leaned over and threw a handful of soapy water at the other girl who retaliated in kind. Soon there were screams of laughter and much jesting from the pair of them. John felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile against his will. Mr. Hale looked up from his lesson to see what had captured John's attention so fully.

"Ah. Margaret and one of the new maids," he smiled. "She has arranged for some of the older girls from the foundling home to come and work on rotation, so that they might learn some housework skills. Very compassionate girl, my Margaret. Always thinking of ways to help others. Quite ingenious ones, if I do say so myself."

"Yes," replied John softly, "your daughter seems to have a very kind nature." He found himself beginning to wish that some of her kindness be directed at him.

"Very accomplished too," Mr. Hale continued proudly. Their lesson was abandoned for the moment, in favor of watching the two girls outside. "My wife and I sent her to London when she was young, so that she might gain a more finished education. She came home every summer spouting French and dancing beautifully. My sister-in-law is a minor member of the aristocracy. She took her daughter and Margaret to so many exciting places, operas and the theatre, even to Almacks. When my niece Edith was presented at court, Margaret was as well."

John felt his spirits sink with every word Mr. Hale uttered. He cursed himself for his foolishness. It did not matter what feelings he himself might be developing, a wellborn woman like Miss Hale would never be interested in an unrefined Northern man like him. He wondered if he should abandon his plan. He knew now that Miss Hale would not return his interest. It would be better if he put it from his mind altogether. He turned abruptly back to Mr. Hale.

"Shall we continue?" he asked tersely. He needed to focus on his studies. Not Miss Hale's earnest smile. However, John found that his concentration had ben ruined. He thought over Mr. Hale's words. Was Mr. Hale trying to tactfully warn John away from his daughter? Mr. Hale did not strike John as a snobbish man, quite the opposite in fact. Nor did he think Mr. Hale observant enough to have noticed an underlying reason for John's attentions to Miss Hale. Perhaps he was simply proud of Miss Hale's skills and ideas, and eager to show her off as any proud father would.

The maids from the founding home interested John as well. He had heard that some people ran training schools for maids out of their homes, but they did not use children from charity schools. Those girls came from the surrounding villages and were sent to the local 'big house' for the opportunity to learn and earn additional wages for the family. He wondered how Miss Hale had become acquainted with people who ran a foundling home. Perhaps she had gone of her own volition. John thought that the most likely course. Miss Hale had already proved that she was a defender of the less fortunate.

Miss Hale intrigued him in a way that no one else of his acquaintance did. His experience with women was in no way extensive. He had no female friends. He'd gone to a boy's grammar school in his youth, then worked exclusively with men as an adult. Mother, much like John, was not a sociable person and therefore did not have a barrage of ladies around her. Mother had also taken care that John hardly ever interacted with women; so careful was she of not letting a woman ensnare him. He'd met Miss Hale in the oddest of circumstances, and continued the acquaintance in a strange way too. They were not friends as such, but he visited her home often to see his tutor. Not even his mother could have prepared for Miss Hale's introduction to John, which perhaps was why she was so vocal in her disapproval of Miss Hale.

Fanny had grown into such capricious woman that she was likely not an acceptable reference for what women were generally like. John had met a few of her like-minded friends, but none of them had stuck in his mind the way Miss Hale did.

He wondered what would happen to him if he let her consume his every thought. Already he could feel his mind rebelling against shutting her out. He wanted to to know more about her. He wanted to know everything about her.

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"The grounds were exquisite. Made over with such beautiful fountains and follies. The shooting was quite fine as well. My husband did very well for himself," exclaimed Mrs. Clarke.

Margaret was sitting in Mrs. Latimer's parlor, a polite smile smile pasted on her face. Her expression had glazed over some time ago. They had begun the meeting well enough. All the ladies had brought recipes cut from magazines or copied from French cookbooks. Mrs. Latimer distributed these among everyone, along with a small purse of funds. Margaret had hoped to leave after this, but had been forced to stay after Mrs. Clarke asked her about dinners in London. Margaret had told them a tale of a dinner party she had attended, given by a peevish dowager baroness, that had an exasperating sixteen courses. The ladies had missed the point of Margaret's story, namely the inane amount of wastefulness and ostentatiousness, and instead lamented the limited society in Milton. This had then descended into a conversation about the pleasing society they did have occasion to spend time with. Mrs. Clarke had been talking of her family's visit to a Sir Charles' country home for several minutes.

"He had a townhouse in London too you know. He was well set up. His wife was quite the little heiress," said Mrs. Clarke in delight, for all the world as though this man's attainments had been her own.

"Did you hear the latest news from London? Lady Caroline Harding was discovered to be having an affair with Lord Jacobs, the son of her husband's greatest friend!" revealed Miss White with a squeal of excitement.

"Never say so! What an odious thing!"

"It's most certainly true. That husband of hers is a pathetic old lecher. Is it any wonder she threw herself at the first young man who came her way?"

"I'd say her husband deserved it. He took that pretty young thing away from all she loved in London and put her in that dreary house in Kent while he stayed behind for Parliament?"

"Oh, have you visited that house?"

"Yes, many years ago, when my husband and I did a wedding trip of Kent. It was tumbling down around our ears back then. Heaven only knows what it looks like now."

Margaret clenched her teeth in frustration. She hated gossip like this. It reminded her too much of Fred. She could just imagine the exaggerated tales these women would spread far and wide if they knew of 'Frederick Smith's' connection to the Hales: 'Did you know, the sister of that awful man seated herself in my parlor, as happy as you please! I can't believe she was so presumptuous. The nerve of her. I had suspicions from the start, I tell you. I bet she's as shifty as he is…'

Margaret closed her eyes in pain at the thought. The Hales had been lucky so far. Helstone was small and a few of the people there knew of Fred's escapades. However, her father was well respected in that community and those that knew could be trusted not to spill the secret. It was in London where Fred was the most talked of. Hidden behind her Aunt Shaw's more distinguished family, Margaret had been able to deflect any mention of the rakish spend-thrift's connections with herself. Fred, in his one display of thoughtfulness, did not reveal his ties to his family. He never visited her while she was in London. He almost never came to the parsonage in Helstone. He was not forbidden per se, but he did know that it would cause enormous trouble for Margaret's reputation if it was known that she was the sister of such a man.

In the carriage on the way home, Margaret took several deep breaths to calm herself. She did not want to alert her mother to her state. Fred himself had not actually been spoken of and she did not want her mother to be alarmed unnecessarily. She had in fact, not read anything about her brother in the paper for almost a year. His last letter had been a lively one, detailing several amusing anecdotes and nothing too untoward. It had been postmarked from Nice in the French Riviera. He'd sent Margaret a beautiful length of lace, his mother a silver brooch and his father a volume of Latin psalms. He detailed the sights and the people he'd met. He told a story of a fistfight he'd gotten into with a visiting Russian diplomat's son, that ended with the two of them toppling off the boat and into the river. The captain had been very angry at having to stop the boat to fish them out. Fred said he had bought his adversary and the captain a drink by way of apology and was now on the best terms with them.

Margaret was too pessimistic to hope that Fred had settled at long last. She and her family had been hoping in vain for that for many years. With each passing year, it seemed less and less likely that he would settle with a permanent occupation and address.

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John bounded down the stairs to the drawing room. He was feeling unusually cheerful this morning. He refused to acknowledge the thought that it was his imminent visit to the Hales that was the cause of his excitement. He tried in vain to convince himself that it was it was also not the possibility that he might see Miss Hale again.

John had tried to put her from his mind. He knew he was not good enough for her. But he found that his elation returned whenever he contemplated seeing Miss Hale again. It seemed his heart was not going to listen to his head. He knew it would only lead to misery down the road, but his foolish heart was not deterred.

His mother was sitting at her embroidery table absorbed in her work. Fanny was playing the piano with unrefined enthusiasm, singing shrilly. John rolled his eyes. His sister was no great musician but made up for her deficiencies by proclaiming widely about her talent with the instrument. The piano had been a gift from John for his sister's birthday two years ago and he had regretted it ever since. Surely she was the envy of cats everywhere with all the yowling noises she made, thought John, grinning to himself.

"Mother, remember I go to the Hales this evening," John reminded her, shrugging into his jacket. "I will be home to dress, but then out till late."

"Dress?" replied Mother, sounding surprised. "Why should you dress up to take tea and lessons with an old parson? Ex-parson!" she snorted inelegantly. John smiled at her.

"Mr. Hale is a gentleman and his daughter is an accomplished young lady, he has told me so himself."

Mother looked at John, shocked. He'd alarmed her with that statement. He'd never spoken about any woman of his acquaintance before. A number of years ago, when his wealth was just becoming present in their lives, Mother had sat him down and explained that many young women would now be paying much attention to him, due to his increase in wealth and change in status. 'Fortune hunters, the lot of them, and utterly beneath your notice' she had said. She'd made him promise to never let his head be turned by a pretty face and forget his duty. He had promised her easily – he'd never had the inclination to engage in any social gathering or encourage any acquaintance that were not business ones. Not until now.

"Don't worry, Mother. I'm in no danger from Miss Hale. She's very unlikely to consider me a catch. She's from the South. She doesn't care for our Northern ways." John tried to convince himself as much as his mother about his lack of interest in Miss Hale. It was easier than to contemplate that any affection on his part would be unreciprocated.

His mother leapt to defend him from himself, despite her hope that John did indeed think nothing of the young woman. "What right has she to turn up her nose at you?" She stood up and started adjusting John's cravat. "A renegade clergyman's daughter who gives unwanted sermons about propriety when she knows nothing on the subject! And such airs that woman gives herself. As prim and proper as you please. She spoke hardly any, except about a topic that was to no one's interest but her own."

John smiled at her fussing. Mother had recounted at length about the appalling time she and Fanny had at the Hales. She had proclaimed Miss Hale to be proud and her mother shamefully miserable. John did not pay much attention to his mother's criticisms. Mother had made up her mind to dislike the Hales ever since he had confessed to her about Miss Hale's defense of the workers in his mill. It had cemented his mother's opinion that Miss Hale was presumptive and conceited, thinking she knew better than John did about his mill. Nor did she listen when John attempted to explain that he respected her passionate defense of the downtrodden, even though she was misguided about the incident in question.

Not even his mother's harsh comments could vex him today. John smiled. "Board up the windows. There'll be a storm later," he told her warmly. He kissed her cheek and left the room.

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Later that evening, John sat with Mr. Hale in his study. Rain lashed against the windows and occasionally down the chimney, causing the fire to hiss. Tutor and pupil had been discussing Plato, which led to a discussion about the merits of the works of other philosophers. It was during this conversation that John and Mr. Hale had their first disagreement.

"I am inclined to be more in agreement with Machiavelli's principles," said John.

"Never say so!" exclaimed Mr. Hale, appalled.

"It is true. His work _II Principe_ contained many of the same principles by which I run my mill. I did not inherit my title of master, I earned it through hard work. What Machiavelli stated is true; a new master has a far more difficult task than a hereditary one, as he must use his own wits to stabilize his rule. My mill must be run with the utmost efficiency. I have taken great care to create a structure that will last. I myself must also maintain its reputation for productivity."

"What Machiavelli was describing was a divide between realism and idealism. It cannot exist in a civilized world."

"Indeed it does. I do so every day. My power in the mill must be preserved if the business is to be successful," replied John.

"You believe that cruel actions are acceptable?"

"I do, when absolutely necessary and if they are for the greater good. If I must be overly harsh with an employee, I do it to ensure the welfare of the rest of my workers. As I explained before, the actions of one worker can have a devastating reverberating effect if abhorrent actions are not checked."

"I admire your passion John, truly. But surely strict does not have to mean unkind? Margaret did say that you beat that worker most soundly. Would a telling off not achieve the same outcome?" asked Mr. Hale, almost pleadingly.

John scrubbed at his face. That one momentary loss of control was causing him a great deal of grief. For the thousandth time, he wished Miss Hale had not witnessed it.

"No," said John quietly. "I do not believe so. I was angry, that much is true. It is also true that I perhaps went too far. But it was more than just a response to gross insubordination. My employees need to know that I value them and their safety. By showing them that I will reprimand severely any man who threatens their lives lets them know that they are worth a great deal to me. As employees and as a part of the source of my wealth. If you ask any of the workers in Milton, I am sure they will agree with my methods."

Mr. Hale nodded his head slowly. "I think I am beginning to agree with you John. Not with your methods, but with your reasoning," he traced his lower lip with his finger, lost in thought. "I myself have wondered at such a conundrum. The need to balance welfare with reproof. Although I have always chosen the opposite side to you, quite in error as it turns out," He spoke softly, seemingly to himself. John's brow creased in confusion. About whom could he be speaking of reprimanding? Not his daughter, surely. Mr. Hale would no more be able to scold Miss Hale than John himself could.

Mr. Hale pulled himself from his thoughts. "No matter. It is not important. I think that is enough for today. Shall we have tea in the drawing room?" John acquiesced to the plan, a little surprised at the abrupt end of the lesson. Once seated in the drawing room, Mr. Hale rang for tea. After a brief uncomfortable silence, Mr. Hale asked John a question about the weaving looms that were used in the mill. John began to explain the processes involved in cotton manufacture, detailing with enthusiasm the great leaps forward in industry that had been made in just the last few decades, discussing the virtues of Arkwright's work in particular.

John was so absorbed in his description that when the door opened and he looked up to find Miss Hale herself delivering tea, he almost lost his composure. He'd been so engrossed in his speech that he's quite forgot where he was. John noted that Miss Hale looked particularly beautiful in her dark blue skirt and white shirtwaist that perfectly accentuated her creamy skin. However, her eyes were slightly red and she regarded John and her father with a preoccupied air that bemused John somewhat. Miss Hale was not normally an absent-minded person and he wondered what it might be that caused it. John realized he'd been openly staring at her for some time and spoke quickly to cover his mortification.

"Arkwright's invention is all motion and energy but truly a thing of beauty. Classics will have to be re-written to include it," he said. Mr. Hale chuckled, whether at John's statement or his uneasiness, John could not tell. Mr. Hale thanked Miss Hale for bringing in the tea tray, and admired the few treats she had brought in with it. Her gaze became clearer as she smiled at her father's quiet praise.

After a wrestling with himself for a moment, John attempted to engaged Miss Hale in conversation, but shied away from examining his motives for doing so. "I hope you were not caught in the storm, Miss Hale," he said, and then inwardly cursed at himself. The weather! What an insipid thing to talk of, after he'd spent the last hour and a half speaking of philosophy and industry. Miss Hale did not seem to notice his discomfort.

"No indeed," she told him, smiling slightly. She bestowed a wider smile and a cup of tea on her father. "I've never seen rain quite like this though," she continued, busying herself with preparing another cup. "The huge great waves of water. It looks as though all of Milton could drown in it, but doesn't. An apt metaphor for the city I think." John quirked a smile at her description that Miss Hale did not see.

John watched her intently. She'd remembered how he took his tea. She passed him the cup and John purposefully brushed his fingers against hers as he reached out to take it. He felt a warmth spread through his body at the contact. Miss Hale met his eyes briefly. She then moved to take the seat beside her father. John noticed that a peculiar scent clung to Miss Hale. It was not a perfume, as he had expected, but a strange bitter scent that reminded him of an apothecary. He wondered at its presence.

The door opened once again and Mrs. Hale entered. She looked forlorn, and gave John only a half-hearted smile before seating herself. Remembering that his mother had spoke of Mrs. Hale's low spirits and in an effort to raise himself in Miss Hale's estimation, John turned to Mrs. Hale and said, "I have been admiring your newly redecorated rooms, Mrs. Hale."

"Oh yes, Mr. Thornton. Well, there... there wasn't a great deal of choice. But these papers are of a similar shade to our drawing room in Helstone. But not quite," said Mrs. Hale dolefully. John noticed Miss Hale looked rather annoyed by her mother's statement. John hoped it was due to Mrs. Hale's disparaging of Milton, and pressed on.

"Well, on behalf of Milton taste, I'm glad we've almost passed muster," he smiled at Miss Hale as he spoke but she was absorbed in glaring at her mother and did not see it.

"Yes, well... clearly you're very proud of Milton. Margaret admires its energy and its… its people. I think the people here are very busy making their businesses successful. A bit too busy perhaps," said Mrs. Hale. Mr. Thornton's heart beat faster to hear Miss Hale's praise of Milton, albeit indirectly. He spoke more warmly, hoping hear more of her views on her new home.

"I won't deny it. I'd rather be toiling here success or failure than leading a dull directionless life as men in the South do, with their careless days of ease and leisure," he said smirking slightly. If Miltoners could be praised on anything it was their attitude to hard work. He lowered his cup slowly, noticing that his remark was met with silence. The light comment seemed to distress the Hales, much to his surprise. Indeed, Miss Hale looked to be very angry. She lay one of her hands upon her mother's and then turned to him furiously.

"You are mistaken! You don't know anything about the South. The men there are not idle, they are…they only live differently to you! And there is less suffering there than I have seen in your mills," she said angrily, changing the topic somewhat strangely. Thornton was taken aback. He expected the remark to be met with laughter and agreement, not hostility. Glancing at Mr. Hale, he saw he also looked far more distraught than the situation warranted.

"I think that I might say that you do not know the North. We masters are not all the same whatever your prejudice against Milton men and their ways," he attempted to defend himself. He was upset that his conversation with Miss Hale had been spoilt and he didn't even know the cause of it.

"I've seen the way you treat your men," retorted Miss Hale. "You are not a just master at all. You treat your workers as you wish because you believe they are beneath you!"

John's felt a flash of anger. Not this again. He'd just spent the afternoon defending his actions to Mr. Hale and now found himself called upon to do so again. "No. I do not," he said slowly, in an attempt to control his mounting frustration. Miss Hale seemed to have a talent for wreaking havoc with his self-control. Her words also fueled his belief that his affection for her was a useless endeavor. She clearly disliked him. That realization caused an intense ache in his stomach.

"You've been blessed with good luck and fortune, but others have not!" she cried.

Truly angry now, John spoke quickly, wanting to clear himself of that unfounded accusation. "I do know something of hardship. Twelve years ago my father died… in very miserable circumstances." John swallowed against the lump in his throat. He had not spoken of this in years but wanted to explain himself to Miss Hale. He wanted her to see _him_ , not the manufacturer or master. "I became the head of the family very quickly. I was taken out of school. I think that I might say that my only good luck was to have a mother of such strong will and integrity. I went to work in a draper's shop and my mother managed so that I could put three shillings aside a week. That taught me self-denial. Now I'm able to keep my mother in such comfort as her age requires and I thank her, every day for that early training... so, Miss Hale, I do not think that I was especially blessed with good fortune or luck."

Miss Hale looked remorseful. Her eyes had filled with tears as she listened to him recount his history. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She stared at him with such sadness and sudden understanding that John's breath rushed out of his lungs. He clenched his fists. He needed to leave before he said anything else. He knew if he continued to look into her sympathetic face, he'd be compelled to reveal more. How sad and lonely he felt. How he threw himself into his work in the hopes that it might ease some of the emptiness he felt inside himself.

"I have outstayed my welcome," he said, standing suddenly.

"Oh no, John," Mr. Hale hastened to assure him. In an attempt to salvage the evening, John put out his hand to shake Miss Hale's. Her eyes widened in disbelief and she did not move to take it. Confused by this rejection, John clenched his fist and lowered his hand.

"I'll see myself out," John bit out. Humiliated and hurt, he unashamedly fled.


	11. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion"

Margaret threw herself onto her bed and began to weep for the second time that day. What a horrid day she'd had! First that sad business at the hospital and then Mr. Thornton brought back painful memories of Fred, before recounting his unhappy childhood. She had been angry with him after his rude insult against her brother. Even though he couldn't possibly know the injury he had caused, Margaret found herself lashing out at him. It had been as though Mr. Thornton had been detailing the very faults of Fred's that distressed her parents so. Fred was one of those men of leisure that Mr. Thornton had scorned. He'd rather spend all his time in the men's clubs and at the houses of his wealthy friends, wiling away money and time without any care at all. His exploits in the papers detailed all kinds of horrid things: fist fights, public drunkenness; blackmail and extortion. He'd even been accused of having an affair with the wife of a prominent London gentleman. Margaret had lost count of the number of times her father had been forced to pay a fine to the courts for Fred's behaviour or send a servant to retrieve him from the county lockup.

Margaret was also further vexed at herself by her comment to Mr. Thornton. She hadn't meant to bring up the treatment of his workers again, not after she promised herself to give him a clean slate. But she had been angry and had wanted to deflect from saying anything more about Fred. He had hurt her with that statement and she pettishly hurt him in return with one of her own.

A knock sounded at Margaret's bedroom door. She wiped at her eyes and stood up. "Come in," she croaked. Papa entered and was alarmed by her tears.

"Margaret! Whatever is the matter?" he asked, taking her hand.

"Oh Papa. I've had a bad day is all," she sniffed. Mr. Hale moved further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He motioned for Margaret to sit beside him. He wrapped his arm around her and they sat in silence for some minutes. After awhile, Papa seemed to remember his reason for following her up here. He cleared his throat.

"The handshake is used here in the North all forms of society... I think you gave Mr. Thornton real offence by refusing to take his hand," he explained, but without the intensity he might have had if she had not looked so miserable.

"I'm sorry I misunderstood the handshake. I was upset and tired and…in London, a gentleman would never expect a lady to take his hand like that... all unexpectedly, without invitation. And I was still shocked from his account of his childhood... why, his father might have died in debtors' prison!" said Margaret woefully. Mr. Thornton had only said 'miserable circumstances' but it was clearly a very painful subject for him, more so than he let on. His mournful eyes had tugged at Margaret's heart. Margaret knew that businessman, unlike members of the gentry, were imprisoned for the crime of debt in addition to losing all their holdings and property to creditors.

"It was something much worse than that, I'm afraid. According to Mr. Bell, Mr. Thornton's father speculated wildly, and lost. He was swindled by a business partner. He... um... he killed himself... because he couldn't bear the disgrace," he told her quietly, stumbling over the wretched explanation.

"What?" gasped Margaret. Her father nodded sadly. Margaret sagged against Papa's shoulder. Suddenly, many things about Mr. Thornton became clear. Why he always looked so sad and severe. Why he had leapt to the defense of Milton men against her accusations. It also explained why he detested risky ventures. Her father had told Margaret of the dinner party he'd attended at Marlborough Mill, how Mr. Thornton vehemently denied the possibility of any speculation to be worth the risk to his business.

"Mother, and son and daughter lived on nothing for years, so that the creditors could be repaid, long after they had given up any hope of settlement," Mr. Hale continued. "He is an honorable man, Margaret, even back then, at such a young age."

"Yes Papa, I quite agree. I was mistaken about his character before, I see that now," said Margaret shamefully. She hunted about her person for her handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she said, "I'm terribly sorry to have offended Mr. Thornton. My only defense is that I had a very trying day." Margaret swallowed and few more tears dribbled down her cheeks. "Mr. Jenkins told me this morning that one of the patients I had been caring for had died in the night. She had been an affectionate woman and she seemed to be getting better. Her children will be so upset to hear of her death. Mr. Jenkins has written to them, they live in York…," Margaret trailed off. Her father enveloped her in his arms once more.

"I am sorry Margaret. I did not know."

"It is alright. I will be alright in the morning. And I will visit Mr. Thornton and apologize for my behaviour."

"Very good. I'm sure Mr. Thornton will understand once you explain it to him."

"Should I tell him of Fred also? Not of the particulars, not that he is my brother, but enough to explain why I was so angry about his comment about men in the South."

"Perhaps that would be the best course. So that there are no further misunderstandings. John seemed quite confused by our reactions to what I'm sure he meant as a general observation. And he was right in a way," her father whispered. "especially about a directionless life of carelessness."

"Oh Papa. That is why I was so angry. Because the very man he was describing could have been Fred." Margaret wept into her father's shoulder.

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John walked listlessly back to the mill, barely noticing the pound of rain against his back. His thoughts were in turmoil, as was usual after his encounters with Miss Hale. He could feel himself flailing, slipping back towards the very place he pulled himself from. John had purposefully not thought of his father in years. Not since that wretched wintery day many years ago. John only had flashes of clarity from that time. Those early years of grief.

The ground had been so frozen it took the undertakers hours to dig the grave. The lid of the coffin had been nailed shut haphazardly. Because he had committed suicide, his father was not permitted to be buried properly. Instead, he was buried without ceremony and without a prayer service on the north end of the cemetery in unhallowed ground. John had knelt on the grave and dug his hands into the earth, desperate for one last glimpse of his beloved father. He felt the sheer pointlessness of everything, until all that was left was a hollowness inside him that made him want to scream and scream.

His mother had dragged him away, back the tiny one room flat that their destitution had forced them to into. He was put to work immediately. His mother believed that you could overcome anything if you worked hard enough and so John had worked. He had worked ceaselessly for years while his hands bled and his head ached, until he had dragged himself out of darkness and ash, to a place higher than even his father had been.

His mother had such a strength of will that it was impossible for her to comprehend what her husband had been feeling in the moments before his death. What John himself felt, although he would never ever tell her so. When he was younger, it would grip him for days, even weeks. He'd buried it deep inside himself, so he might never think or feel, until it suddenly clawed its way to his consciousness and left him in such utter agony that it was all he could do not beat at his chest and tear at his skin. Now that he was older, John had better control over it. Oh, he could still feel it; it was still there, rippling beneath the surface of his skin. Sometimes it was a heat, other times a bitter cold that left him almost breathless. He didn't know if it was in his blood or in his soul, but it was definitely _there_ , lying beneath. Waiting.

But he understood it better now. He'd used it as fuel for his ambition. He made it his life's pursuit to never end up like his father. Everything he did was done thoughtfully, carefully, so that he might never find himself in the position of discovering what that feeling would do to him if it succeeded in dragging him into its depths.

After he'd left the drapers at the age of nineteen, he became an overseer in the very mill he now owned. He'd driven himself hard and developed a reputation as harsh and hard-hearted man. At the death of the previous owner, John took all of his hard earned money to the bank and persuaded them to loan him the rest he needed to purchase Marlborough Mill. He'd paid off the loan within three years. Now the mill his in its entirety, and he'd made enough profit to build the manor within its gates so that his mother and sister might live in comfort and revel in the source of his wealth. He turned all that bitterness and gall to a golden triumph, spitting, clawing and grasping all the while. He had been unapologetic in his ambition. He knew what he wanted and he was not ashamed of it.

It was not until recently, this past year or so, that the dark feeling began to return. For the first time, John was afraid of it. He couldn't think what else he might achieve with it. He was wealthy; a businessman, a magistrate. He'd lavished extravagances upon his mother in gratitude for all she had done for him. He gave Fanny gifts too, and let her spend what she liked at the milliners and drapers, in addition to the generous dowry he'd settled on her. It did not seem to be enough to dispel his dark feelings.

John had soon realized that what he was feeling was an intense loneliness. He had plenty of friends among the other manufacturers, and he always enjoyed the company of his mother and Fanny, usually – when she wasn't banging away at that infernal piano. But it wasn't that kind of loneliness, he concluded. It was an emptiness that he wanted to fill with companionship, discussion, thought, laughter, affection and love. He'd realized sometime ago, after a heedless comment of Fanny's about his bachelor state, that the person who would fit this description was a wife. And ever since Miss Hale came into his life, John noticed that the tightness in his heart would lessen whenever he was in her presence; her kind smile a balm on his battered soul.

Like the darkness in him, John was also to afraid to name this lightness, as though naming it would bring it to the surface and let it utterly consume him. Instead, he attempted to control this one too. He limited his time with Miss Hale. He tried not think of her. He tried to remember his promise to his mother, to always do his duty and put the mill first. But even so, John would go about his day at the mill wondering, 'What would Miss Hale do here? What would she think of this?' He wanted to know what thoughts lay behind her clever eyes. Slowly and cautiously, John had begun to prod at the lightness, experimenting. He would spend some time with Miss Hale, and then he would wait to see its affects. His next few days would be filled with a happiness unlike any he had ever felt before. If he ignored her presence, he would go about irritated and despondent. It seemed that all his years of teaching himself control and self-denial were ineffective where Miss Hale was concerned. He was also startled to notice that this did not unnerve him as much as he thought it would. He decided to prod further, open himself up more to Miss Hale. He had wanted to show her a glimmer of what he felt, so that he might gauge what she felt towards him.

But despite his efforts, Miss Hale remained indifferent to him. He certainly seemed to spark emotions in her, but none of the kind her wanted her to feel. Miss Hale was also stirring up all the things he disliked about himself, forcing him to face them. She'd dressed him down for his brutish and callous behaviour. John would not apologize for who he had to become in order to survive. But he did see that some of his actions were merciless. He was harsh with his workers. He tried to balance this with fairness, but knew that he sometimes missed the mark. He was not deliberately sadistic but nor did he really go out of his way to improve their conditions; he knew there was more he could do.

Their disastrous encounter earlier this evening had also made John aware of the fact he had no practice at courting a woman. He'd been terribly awkward. He had tried to be open and honest and had only hurt them both and dragged himself though all these thoughts he had been avoiding for years. He'd insulted her and her family. She'd been so offended by his remarks that she couldn't even bring herself to touch him. John groaned at that, hating himself.

He opened the front door to the manor as quietly as possible, so as not to alert his mother to his arrival. He trudged slowly up the stairs to his room leaving wet footprints in his wake. He sat down heavily on his bed.

John's turbulent response to their strained encounter also told John what he had been dreading and longing for in equal measure; that he had begun to care for her. He could lie to himself no longer. His carefully crafted walls were beginning to crack. His composure lay in tatters.

Burying his face in his hands, John began to weep soundlessly for his father, for his childhood, for all he had lost.


	12. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Pray you now, forget and forgive"

John was walking back from the graveyard through the early morning fog. His unsettling thoughts of the other night had made him realize that he'd never been back to the graveyard after that day. Today, he decided he would try, at least if only to see if the grave was even still visible. He had put his hand on the latch but couldn't bring himself to push it open. If he continued inside, his feet would carry him to his father's grave and he'd discovered that he did not yet have the courage to do that. If he started talking to the grave, he'd never stop. He had no idea if he was angry or sad at his father's death, even now all these years later. After he had first died, John had been so emotionless and empty, he did not feel anything at all. But even after his emotions returned, he still couldn't say. He missed his father terribly, but also hated what he had done, to his mother especially. John wondered if she had ever visited the grave. He'd never thought to ask her.

A figure suddenly appeared before him, materializing through the mist. For one wild moment, all the stories John had ever heard of ethereal beings haunting graveyards came rushing back to him. He did not know if he was relieved or even more shocked to realize that the figure was Miss Hale. She spotted him too and started slightly. An icy hand gripped John's heart. He had no idea what to do. Miss Hale stopped in front of him. She looked up at him determinedly.

"Mr. Thornton. I wish to apologize for my behaviour the other evening. I have been told that I inadvertently offended you, with the handshake. Please believe me when I tell you that I have never experienced such a thing before. In London, it is the lady who reaches to shake hands first, not the man. I'm not suggesting that your behaviour was abhorrent in any way, merely that I was ignorant of it," she said in a rush, as though she had practiced it. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot before continuing. "I also need to explain to you why we – that is to say I – was angered by your comment about men in the South. A... a relative of mine... has fallen into some reckless pursuits. And the imagine you described of a careless life of leisure... it was an apt description for my... my relative. That is why we were upset you see, for the truth is barely spoken of amongst ourselves and for you to say it in such a passing manner… it surprised us. I was shocked and upset and that is why I said those things. I did not mean what I said. I've spoken with others about the conditions in the mills and I am told yours is better than most."

John let out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. She did not despise him! It had been a misunderstanding. She did not think him utterly deplorable. He had not thought London ways to be so different, but then again she had been raised in a different class to him, she had no doubt been taught different rules. His relief was so intense that a smile broke through his carefully controlled mask.

"T – Thank you Miss Hale. I am glad we have cleared the air. And I, in turn, am sorry for the offence I caused your family. It was done quite in ignorance," he replied slightly breathless.

Miss Hale still looked mournful. She bit her lip, then took a deep breath.

"I am also so sorry to hear about your father," she said quietly. "That must have been exceptionally hard for you, and your family. I cannot even imagine…," she trailed off.

"That is alright, Miss Hale. It was many years ago," he said, eyes closing briefly at the memory.

"But still painful," she insisted softly. "And it clearly still affects you deeply. That is why you drive yourself so hard."

"I – yes, I suppose so," John replied, unnerved by her perceptiveness. Miss Hale seemed to realize her comment might have been discourteous. She blushed, a charming sight, and said, "The two of us have done a good job of vexing each other so far. How about we agree to a truce?"

John nodded numbly, enthralled by the way she had said 'the two of us'. She eyed him expectantly, waiting. Understanding lit. He held out his right hand to her and she took it gently between both of her own.

"See, I am learning Milton ways, Mr. Thornton," she said, smiling a tiny smile. She bid him good day and left him standing there, stunned. He flexed his hand briefly, still feeling the warmth of her hand upon his. He walked home in a daze. He felt as though his heart would burst. Perhaps she _had_ come to care for him a little.

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Margaret was glad to have made up with Mr. Thornton, for her father's sake at least. She was glad that his unreadable expression had changed to one of understanding after she had explained herself to him. She must have offended him deeply for him to look so uneasy at her arrival. Margaret herself had not meant the meeting to happen out in the open like that either. The fog that enveloped the city this morning had driven her to the graveyard for her walk, due to its elevated height above the city. She had thought she might break free of the fog up there. Margaret had been planning to ask to speak with him on Thursday when he visited her father, and was practicing her speech in her head as she walked. His sudden appearance had startled her, as though her very thoughts had caused him to materialize in front of her. She wondered why he was at the graveyard.

During her stilted explanation of Fred, she could not bring herself to say 'brother'. It had got caught in her throat, too painful and shameful to admit. She hoped he understood what she had be trying to say. He had accepted her explanation readily, for which she was glad. She did not think she could have gone into a more detailed explanation at present.

She also did not think she had conveyed how saddened she was by the news about his father. Suicide was illegal in the church. As the family of a man who committed a terrible sin against his person, they must have been ostracized. Maybe they still were in some respects. Margaret had yet to see the Thornton's in Sunday worship, though many of the other mill owners attended the same church. She had not realized she'd voiced her thought about how his father's death had shaped him into the intensely principled and driven man he was now. Not until he'd tried to reply to her shocking and no doubt unwanted commentary on his life. Luckily, he did not seem offended, and had taken her hand easily when she'd suggested the peace-offering. Margaret had caught a glimpse of something intense in Mr. Thornton's gaze when he took her hand. It was almost a hunger, a longing, so quick she was sure she had imagined it.

Taking the short way back home, Margaret only stopped briefly to gather her things and check on the maids. She was due at the hospital. She had not visited in several days, so that she might recover her spirits after the last sad time she had spent there.

The sick ward was particularly busy today – many more people came in on Sundays, their only day off. Fires had been lit to starve off the oddly cold August day. Margaret heated water and milk in pots over-hanging the flames and doled them out to each patient. Mr. Jenkins was making his rounds, examining each patient carefully and detailing his instructions to the nurse, who wrote it down on a slate. This slate was then hung at the foot of the bed so that all the workers knew what was required and what was forbidden for the patient.

A sudden shout and rush of activity had Margaret hurrying to its source.

"It's me daughter, Bessy! Quick, 'elp 'er! She canna breathe!" an ashen faced man was hollering down at Mr. Jenkins, supporting a thin woman in his arms. The young girl was gasping for breath in between hacking coughs that shook her tiny frame. Mr. Jenkins hurried over to the pair and helped the man sit Bessy down on the closest bed.

"Margaret, get some jimsonweed and a pipe, please," said Mr. Jenkins urgently. Margaret rushed to the shelves and quickly found what she was looking for. Mr. Jenkins told Bessy to lean forward to help her breathe better while he quickly tamped a measure of dried jimsonweed into the bowl of the pipe and lit it. His attempts to get Bessy to put the pipe to her lips were unsuccessful however, as she was coughing and shaking to such a degree that made holding the pipe steady an impossible task. Mr. Jenkins took a piece of newspaper from the bedside table and rolled it into a cone shape. Margaret watched, surprised, as he held the wider part up to Bessy's face and inhaled from the pipe himself, blowing the smoke through the cone into Bessy's face.

"Take deep breaths," Mr. Jenkins instructed. "as deep as you can."

The rasping in Bessy's breathing subsided somewhat, until she was able to take the pipe and administer it herself. Her breathing much eased, she lay back against the pillow, utterly spent.

"Thank ya, sir," said the man gratefully. "You saved her life."

Mr. Jenkins smiled slightly in acknowledgement, but it was quickly replaced by a frown. He turned to Margaret and said in undertone, "I am going to get the stethoscope. Can you sit with them please?" Margaret readily agreed. She offered a chair to the man and went and retrieved another from beside a vacant bed for herself. She introduced herself to the two of them.

"Aye, I've seen you about. I'm Nicholas Higgins, and this is me daughter Bessy."

"I seen you at Marlborough Mill," Bessy told her hoarsely, "scolding the master as good as anything," she said with a little wheeze of amusement.

"You work at Marlborough Mill?" asked Margaret, surprised.

"Aye. Father works at 'ampers, and I used to too, till I started coughin' all hours o' the day and night. The fluff bothered me something fierce, so Father had me moved straightway to Marlborough. Because of the wheel," Bessy explained weakly.

"Thornton's one of the only ones' round 'ere who've got the wheel," said Nicholas.

"So I've heard," smiled Margaret. Conversation was halted as Mr. Jenkins returned with the stethoscope. It was a long wooden tube with a wide opening at one end, and a smaller opening at the other. Mr. Jenkins asked Bessy to sit up, then placed the larger end of the instrument on her chest and the other end to his ear. He listened intently for some moments, instructing her to breathe deeply now and then as he moved the instrument around. He repeated the process against her upper back. Finally, he turned to Nicholas and Bessy with a grave expression.

"I am afraid that Bessy has quite an advanced case of brown lung. Cotton dust has built up in her lungs over years and is causing the breathing difficulties. The examination with the stethoscope has confirmed this. I am very sorry."

Tears filled Margaret's eyes. Bessy looked agonizingly at her father and then began to sob in earnest. Margaret shifted so that she was sitting on the bed next to Bessy and put her arms around her. Bessy buried her face in Margaret's chest.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" asked Nicholas in anguish. "Some medicine or summat? That smoke worked wonders!"

"The jimsonweed causes the coughing fits to subside, but the damage to her lungs is extensive and cannot be repaired. I cannot say how much longer it will be… some patients with brown lung live with it for some years, others perish within weeks," returned Mr. Jenkins gravely. Nicholas's face crumpled and he reached for Bessy's hand blindly.

"There are some remedies that can ease the suffering. I recommend ginger tea to be drunk every morning and evening. Also, make a paste of mustard oil and camphor and rub it into the chest and upper back before bed every night. And the jimsonweed inhalant for intense coughing. We will prepare some for you to take home with you. Come back if they start to become ineffective, or if her condition worsens. Again, I am deeply sorry." Mr. Jenkins nodded to Margaret and turned away.

Margaret held Bessy for awhile longer, stroking her hair until the worst of her tears were over. She then stood and after a quiet word to Nicholas, went to prepare the concoctions Mr. Jenkins had prescribed. Margaret thought it best to leave the two of them alone with their grief. She poured the mustard oil and camphor together into a bottle, her vision becoming more and more blurry. Her heart ached for the pair of them. Bessy was too young to die. She ought to look forward to a long and happy life with a husband and children. Not a short miserable life cut short by cotton dust.

Later, after the Higgins' had gone home, Margaret sought out Mr. Jenkins and asked him to explain more about brown lung.

"It is a debilitating disease, many of the poor people in mill towns suffer from it. A few years ago, before the wheel became more common around these parts, we used to get droves of suffers in here. It was an awful sight. Some of them would choke to death right in front of me. It's not quite understood why some people seem to function well enough with brown lung, while others are forced to stop work and die in a great deal of pain. It is usually the men that undertake more labor intensive work who fair better, so perhaps it has something to do with the amount of physical exertion one undertakes prior to diagnosis." Mr. Drew said.

"And the wheel removes the dust from the room?"

"Yes, mostly. It removes the larger particles certainly, but the smaller ones still get through. I believe it is those ones that cause the most irritation to the lungs and throat. One can cough to dislodge a large remnant, but the smallest ones are not shifted at all."

"And all the people in the mill are exposed to this? Even the overseers and masters?" asked Margaret quietly. An alarming image of Mr. Thornton choking, gasping for breath, came unbidden to her mind.

"Yes, but them only in small doses. It is the continuous exposure to the dust that causes the most harm. Those who began work in the mills as young children are the ones who are more likely to suffer brown lung as adults."

Margaret thought on this. It seemed to her that there must be an additional step in protection, one between the wheel and inhalation. She resolved to visit the library tomorrow to see what more she could learn on the subject.

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Margaret spent the next few days researching and experimenting. She had borrowed several books from the Milton library. She found references to Ancient Romans using animal bladders as face masks, and Leonard da Vinci's designs for a woolen face covering. She knew that pig bladders were used to seal jars, due to the fact that they shrunk in size, allowing the contents to keep from spoiling. Wool was a dense fabric that held water quite well. Margaret reasoned that the answer lay somewhere in the combination between the two. A rubber face mask would stop one from breathing in dust, but would stop one from breathing in air also. A ring of rubber around the outside of the mask to help seal it to the wearer's face would be a logical solution, thought Margaret. She sketched her designs on paper, amending and labelling as she went.

The fabric needed presented a problem. It needed to be dense enough to trap particles but not so dense that the wearer was unable to breathe. Margaret found several scraps of different fabrics in her sewing box. In the kitchen, she retrieved several bowls and a bag of flour, the latter to act as the cotton dust. She secured each piece of fabric to a bowl and then poured a measure of flour on top of each. Removing the fabric from the first bowl, she saw that a good quantity of the flour had passed through the cotton sheet she'd used, as she'd predicted it would. The flour had also passed through the linen and taffeta fabrics. Only the wool had the smallest amount. Satisfied, Margaret began layering squares of wool on top of one another, continuing until almost none of the flour passed through the thickness. At four layers, Margaret was forced to halt. She could not make the mask any thicker, or the wearer would have trouble breathing though it. Remembering da Vinci's explanation, she submerged the fabric into a bowl of water and then poured flour on to it. Margaret lifted it to see no detectable trace of flour had been able to pass though. Triumphant, Margaret then set about sewing the round disc of rubber to the layered wool, using the shape of her own mouth and nose as a guide. She added two lengths of plain cotton strips to the edges of the mask, so that it was able to be tied securely to the face, one higher behind the head and one lower.

She startled Dixon and her mother by wearing it around the house for the entire next day, needing to see if it was feasible to be worn for an extended period. Margaret took her month's allotment of allowance and bought supplies to make ten more masks, five of which she made to fit a child, using Rebecca, this month's maid from the foundling home, as a model.

Calculating the figures, Margaret worked out that mill owners would be able to supply each of their two hundred to three hundred workers with a face mask of this design for the cost of a years' wage of a laborer. The mask would have to be washed vigorously every two weeks to ensure that the inevitable build up of dust was removed, in addition to the daily superficial shaking out it would need.

The only issue was the required dampness of the cloth. It would be more effective if dampened at intervals throughout the day, but Margaret could not see many mill owners agreeing to let the workers stop production every few hours to perform this task, even if it only took a few minutes. Undaunted however, Margaret took a mask to Princeton with her when she went to visit Bessy. Bessy's emotional state had improved a bit since the day of the diagnosis. She was saddened by the fact that she would not be able to live a long life, but took comfort in the thought that she would soon be in heaven, and be able to see her loving mother and sister once more. She had asked Margaret to read the Bible to her, particularly the passages that spoke of what was waiting for her on the other side. Despite the fact that the damage had already been done, Bessy agreed to wear the mask. She also gave Margaret's masks to five of the children and several other young women in Marlborough Mill who were plagued with coughing fits. Nicholas refused a mask because he did not want to wear one while his daughter lay dying of lung disease.

Margaret did not have the funds to make any more at present, which caused her some anxiety. She resolved to speak with Mr. Thornton, to see if he would finance the project. She thought she could get him to agree if he saw the benefits to the worker's health. If not, she would present her idea to the women at the Ladies' Aid and see if they would help her canvas for funds.

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Margaret, her father and Sarah were sitting in the Lyceum Hall. It was late in the afternoon and the hall was full of people of all classes. Almost every chair was occupied. A noted architect was scheduled to speak at several cities in the North and Mr. Hale expressed a desire to attend, asking Margaret if she would like to come along. Margaret did not have a great love of architecture, but she did enjoy history and the two often went hand in hand. She thought she would know enough to not be terribly bored. In an effort to make it more enjoyable, she had invited Sarah to come along as well. Sarah and Margaret discovered they both shared a love of Rococo art, which was one of the topics expected at the lecture.

The lecturer was a wonderful orator but did seem to be slightly unprepared. He did not bring any images or pamphlets to pass around to the guests. Margaret had read enough of her father's books to have an idea of the things he described, but she wondered if the less educated in the crowd had an acceptable frame of reference. She thought it a great testament to the innovative minds of those in the North that many people from the middle-class, and indeed the working-class, attended the lecture and were following along attentively. A tall man sitting several rows ahead of them stood out in particular. Margaret realized it was Mr. Thornton. She was glad he was in attendance, as it was certainly an indication that he took his education with Mr. Hale seriously.

"The Baroque style in this period is characterized by the intense use colour, and deliberately incomplete elements of the façade. As well as incredibly detailed frescos. These frescos usually had religious undertones…," the lecturer said in a resounding voice, gesticulating enthusiastically.

"Have you seen any Baroque frescos?" Sarah asked Margaret in a hushed tone.

"Only a few. They are quite beautiful. Bold yet soft at the same time. I cannot even describe it. It is as though the subject is standing in the room with you," she whispered back.

"Examples of this style of architecture in England are Greenwich Hospital, which was designed by Sir Christopher Wren. Castle Howard in Yorkshire, and of course St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The Great Fire of London, while tragic, led to parts of the city to be rebuilt into this emerging style."

Sarah's eyes lit up. "I've seen Castle Howard," she said happily. "I did not know that was an example."

"I wish I'd thought to bring one of Papa's books on architecture with me. We could have looked at the pictures while he spoke. I can't remember what Greenwich Hospital looks like. Is that the one with the two domes on top?"

"Yes. A beautiful building. The chapel in particular is breathtaking," Mr. Hale whispered to the two women.

"The Baroque style paved the way from the more colourful and, in some ways, more pleasing Rococo style. This is most famously depicted in the France, at the Palace of Versailles…"

Margaret and Sarah perked up at this. They knew more about this style due to their interest in it. The lecturer detailed how the beautiful palace emphasized asymmetry and light, elaborate designs. Margaret could not help but think that Mrs. Thornton and her daughter were the personification of these two styles. Both ornate and richly decorative, but the elder was the Baroque – serious and religious; while Fanny was the Rococo – pale colours, many curves and a sense of lightheartedness. Margaret had to press her fingers to her lips in an effort not to laugh aloud at this thought.

At the conclusion of the lecture, Margaret and her party waited patiently for the others to file out. Mr. Thornton had seen them and was making his way over to the group. Mr. Hale had spotted him too.

"Ah, John! I am glad you made it. A pity we were not able to sit together; I would have liked to explain some of the finer points to you as he went. But I doubt you needed my assistance, the speaker was quite knowledgeable on his own," said Mr. Hale pleasantly.

"I enjoyed it. It was informative. Though I wish there had been illustrations to go along with it."

"That is what we were thinking. It would have been much richer," replied Margaret.

"Are you a student of architecture, Miss Hale?" asked Mr. Thornton with interest.

"Oh no. History is more my interest. But I did enjoy the lecture. The differences between the two styles was particularly captivating. It made me think of your mother and sister, Mr. Thornton," Margaret teased lightly. Mr. Thornton's lips twitched into a slight smile, the first she had ever seen on him. It completely changed his face, making him look less severe. It also made Margaret realize how much younger Mr. Thornton was compared to his fellow masters.

"It is an apt observation," he returned dryly. "I doubt I'll be able to imagine them as anything else now. How Fanny would dearly love to be thought of as a member of the French court."

"I'm sure she would," agreed Margaret. "Oh! Forgive me. This is my friend, Miss Sarah Wyatt."

"Pleasure to meet you Miss Wyatt." The conversation continued for several more moments before Mr. Thornton took his leave. Margaret and Sarah linked arms and talked happily as Mr. Hale escorted them to Sarah's house. Margaret was glad to have found a friend who shared many of the same interests as herself. It was a relief to immerse herself in pleasant conversation after the fickle speeches of Mrs. Latimer and her friends.

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Mr. Thornton was staring at the new painting that hung in the drawing room, displayed in a varnished wooden frame. It was Margaret's sketch of the Milton Cotton Exchange.

Papa noticed John regarding the work. "It is a wonderful likeness, is it not? Margaret is remarkably talented," he said with a proud glance at Margaret, who blushed. "This was a particular favorite of mine. I asked Margaret to copy it onto a canvas in watercolors for me."

"You painted this Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton asked her, raising his eyebrows. She looked up from her book at his question. "I am surprised. I did not think you had an affinity with anything to do with cotton in Milton."

Margaret was slightly annoyed by his tone, but brushed it off when she realized Mr. Thornton likely did not know how much she admired his city. "On the contrary, I am enjoying the energy in Milton. Everyone is always moving forwards. It seems every day new things are being invented or discovered. I felt that the Exchange was a good representation of this," she explained.

"Forgive me, I did not mean that to be a criticism. I only meant that, coming from the South, I would have thought you would have been in more support of life there, drawn things of that nature," stated Mr. Thornton, evidently not meaning his previous statement to sound so accusatory.

Margaret smiled at him. "Is to be in support of one mean to condemn the other? I believe both have value. Country is more idealistic, but industry is where the world is headed. To embrace it would be far more preferable."

"Well said," agreed Papa, "Industry and mass production was the way of the future. Denying that fact would only lead to difficulties."

"Have you sketched any other places around Milton?" Mr. Thornton asked her. Margaret nodded and, after a slight hesitation, went to retrieve her folio from the side table. She passed it to Mr. Thornton, who accepted it carefully and flipped slowly through its pages.

Margaret watch his expression stealthily, wanting to know what this taciturn man thought of her work. She had not looked at her sketchbook in its entirety for some time. She hadn't realized how many drawings she had done since moving to Milton. She saw his eyes light in recognition as he saw the likeness of many places he knew around the city; the ship yard, the glass factory. Margaret had almost forgotten the grim scenes she had done in charcoal of working-class families huddled on their doorsteps, their hands held out pleadingly for coins. None of the people had any faces. Their likeness was merely hinted at with rough lines. Margaret was aware that this was exceedingly strange, and wondered what Mr. Thornton thought of the odd drawings.

"Their faces… is that because you wish to make a statement of some kind?" he asked her quizzically. She gave a short laugh.

"No. Any underlying interpretation is unintentional. I simply am not good at copying faces. Not with accuracy at least. I much prefer landscapes. They are an easy theme, the subject does not move and is only angles and lines. People are far more difficult. They are too complex and too beautiful for me to copy."

"You think all people are complex?" he asked, surprised.

"Certainly!" she replied "Some people more than others of course, but every person has thoughts and expressions that they conceal. And the whole world and everything in it has contrived to this exact moment to result in the very person who sits before me? No. No, people are far to worldly for me draw." Margaret had tried for years to draw people, but portraiture was not her forte. Her subjects always ended up looking disfigured or utterly unrealistic. It was better for her self-esteem if she stuck with landscapes.

"Your work is clear, honest. You capture everything with feeling, even those that are mere brick and metal. They are beautiful," he told her admiringly. Margaret blushed under his praise.

"Thank you Mr. Thornton. I am glad I have done your city justice."


	13. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things"

"We need some more over here!"

John was walking slowly through the weaving shed, watching production with an imperious eye. He'd received a large order of cotton from an American importer, one of the largest he'd ever been commissioned. These two weeks coming would see the last of it, and it was impetrative that the order should be conducted without error. The stress of the past three weeks weighed on him. He was sharper than usual with his workers and they had noticed.

The weavers were hard at work, barely looking up from their machines, less the catch his eye and invoke his ire. Children scurried about on all fours, collecting the scraps that fell to the ground. John had noticed that some of the children were wearing an odd covering upon their mouth and nose, as were a few of the women. He'd first noticed it two weeks ago and did not know what to make of it. It was a mouth safeguard of some kind, certainly, but beyond that he couldn't deduce how it might be useful or where the workers had gotten it. The apparatus did not seem to affect their work in any way and so he had let it go without comment. As long as their work was completed to a high standard what the wore while they did it made no difference to him.

"Look out, here's 'is Highness. I reckon 'e can smell it when you're not workin'," said one worker to another in an undertone. John clenched his jaw, but otherwise gave no indication that he had heard the sullen remark. A worker some paces ahead of him looked as though he was resting against his loom.

"You there!" John called to him. "Is the machine mended?"

"Yes, sir," came the short reply.

"Then use it," John snapped. "for there's many to take your place." The worker turned away from him hurriedly and went back to his task. After walking between several more lines of machinery, John noticed that a woman was not working. Instead, she was cradling a crying child to her chest fervently. His heart skipped a beat. Accidents were unfortunately very common in the mills. The children in particular were prone to losing fingers or becoming caught in the machines. Looking anxiously over the child, he could see no blood or broken bone. He saw instead that the child's face was pale and shiny with sweat. Not an accident then, but sickness.

"The child is ill. Send her home." John demanded of the mother.

"I canna afford to, sir!" she whimpered.

"The child cannot work," John insisted, annoyed. Due to the illness and the mother's fretting, this machine was un-operational, delaying production. But as he watched the wretched child and mother, his demeanor softened. He decided on a better course of action.

"Is there another child at home?" he asked quietly. The woman nodded, her face ashen.

"If you can get that child here within the hour you can keep the place," he told her.

"Thank ya, sir," she responded gratefully. She hugged the child tighter to her chest. John pulled a sixpence from his pocket and gave it to the woman.

"Buy the child some medicine," he told her sharply. He then turned and resumed his inspection. "In the hour, mind, or lose the place," he called over his shoulder.

Movement out the windows drew his eye. He saw, with some surprise, the watery outline of Miss Hale through the wavy glass. She was making her way into the mill yard. John's palms began to sweat. What was she doing here? He remembered with stunning clarity the last few conversations they'd had together. He had not bothered to hide his interest in her. Surely she had noticed the way he smiled at her as she passionately described her drawings. He'd even been driven to praise her beautiful work, and he almost never praised anyone. He was touched that she had shown him her sketchbook, and thrilled to be permitted an insight into her mind. He was pleased too that they had found some common interests, and that she was comfortable enough in his presence to jest with him.

John raised his brow in confusion as Miss Hale stopped to speak with two spinner girls. How had she become friends with women like that?

John clattered down the stairs, eager to investigate.

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Margaret was hurrying through the courtyard at Marlborough Mill. It was almost half twelve, and Margaret wanted to catch Bessy and her friends before they went back to work after the meal recess. Breaking through the dimness of the stone entrance, Margaret gazed around the mill yard for Bessy. She did not see her but did spot Jenny and Mary, two girls Margaret knew had been given masks, sitting together on the low wall.

"Hello, Miss Margaret!" called Jenny, spying her.

"Hello, Jenny," returned Margaret, smiling. "How's your mother?"

"Little better, miss," she said soberly. "That poultice you gave her 'elped a lot. She says she barely feels the pain in her ankle now."

"Good. And how are the masks working? Have the coughing fits stopped?" asked Margaret eagerly.

"Aye!" said Mary happily. "I've 'ad a bit of trouble once or twice, but not every day as it was before,"

"Same," agreed Jenny. "Me cough's almost gone. It bothers me 'ardly any."

"And they are easy to wear? Easy to breathe through?" demanded Margaret. "You are able to wash them?"

"Well enough," replied Jenny easily, swinging her legs. "I threw it in the wash tub with all the rest. Made sure to dry it careful like, jest as you said."

"We explained to the others what they was for. Some were doubtin' until we said we'd not been coughin'. Some others axed after them," Mary supplied keenly.

"Excellent. I'm so pleased. Will you tell them that I am looking out funds to make more?" asked Margaret. The two girls nodded. "It might take awhile," she cautioned. "I'll need to find the money and then spend some time making them. Hopefully everyone can have a mask, with Mr. Thornton's permission, in the next few months."

"Aye, that's good enough. A few more months o' coughing an' sneezin' won't make much difference to our lot," said Jenny sniggering.

"Been workin' 'ere years through all the dust an' cold and heat. Being able to get rid of one of them things is a great 'elp for us workers," Mary agreed. Margaret smiled. She went to thank them and be on her way, but was seized by a sudden curiosity.

"Do you like working here?" she asked.

"Like it?" repeated Jenny incredulously. "Like work?"

"It's the same as anywhere," said Mary, giving Margaret an odd look. "Hours are the same no matter what mill. The work is 'ard everywhere. And dangerous, 'cause of fire. And the accidents. People fallin' in the machines, or getting' their fingers or 'air caught up in it. All the masters are about the same too."

"That's not true," Jenny insisted. "I used to work at 'arkness'. He was forever changin' his mind about this or that. Once, he axed us to work through every Sunday for a month, so that an important order could be filled. He promised everyone wage and a 'alf for the extra work. When it came time to pay us, he told us he couldn't give us the extra 'alf!" she huffed. "This 'appened a few times, til I'd 'ad enough of it and come here." Jenny knocked her boots against the stone in annoyance. Then her expression cleared somewhat. "Wages are better here too. I was only earnin' four shillings a week there. I earn five and ten up here."

"Thornton's vicious as a dragon true enough, but 'e tells it straight, none of them tricks. And 'e pays better than most," conceded Mary. Then she scowled. "My da makes me give him most of my wage, even though the men earn ten pence more a week."

Margaret was surprised by the replies she'd received. She thought they would tell her that they enjoyed making something every day, achieving something. But instead only told her of wages earned and conditions endured.

"What would you spend your wages on, if you could?" she probed. Jenny and Mary exchanged a look and then laughed soundly.

"Food, and then more food," giggled Jenny. "I'd pile it up, great big plates!"

"Big troughs of it!" Mary chortled.

Margaret smiled weakly. Again, their had answer surprised her. She thought they would say clothes or books. That is what Margaret herself would buy if she had an unlimited allowance. She scolded herself for her naivety. Her stupid answer smacked of privilege. She barely thought about food or where it came from. It simply appeared before her on the table, always hot and appealing thanks to Dixon's skill. Of course these girls would answer in this way, leading the hand to mouth existence that they did.

"You don't get paid enough for three meals a day?" asked Margaret, slightly horrified. She didn't think she'd ever felt hunger in her life. She couldn't imagine having to work ten hours a day on an empty stomach.

"Aye, we do, if two or more of your family works," Jenny informed her. "That'll be enough for food an' rent. But sometimes there ain't nothin' in the shops worth eatin', even if you've got the coin."

"None that can be used by jest one family," Mary amended. "There's always whole chickens or sides of beef, but we canna afford to buy the whole thing that way, we can only get the offcuts."

Margaret considered this. "If you were given a raise in wages, would you be able to eat better?" Neither girl answered, suddenly looking in horror over Margaret's shoulder. Margaret turned and saw that Mr. Thornton was standing there looking intently at the scene before him. Margaret quickly spun back to the girls to catch her breath and then walked towards Mr. Thornton. She was chagrined to realize that he had overheard her last remark out of context. No doubt he thought she was looking to start a mutiny in his ranks! She hurried to explain.

"I was only asking after their wages and what they spent it on. It was not a disparage on your running of things." Mr. Thornton glanced at the pair behind Margaret and then looked back to her, his expression blank. He started to walk slowly through the yard. Margaret fell into step beside him. She cast one last look at Jenny and Mary and saw that they had already scampered back inside the spinning shed.

"You once remarked that I knew nothing about Milton and the people who lived here. I meant you no harm with my questions," she informed him cautiously, not wanting to start a row.

"I did not mean you should hang on to the tittle-tattle of young weavers and spinners," he replied shortly.

"Well, they weren't telling me any secrets," she said quietly, deciding to ignore his clipped tone. Mr. Thornton sighed. When he spoke to her next, his voice was lighter, though it sounded if it cost him great effort to keep it so.

"They've become practiced at telling others their wages and their working conditions. There was a man with a survey here a few weeks ago. It's quite the new thing."

"Survey?" repeated Margaret questioningly.

"An independent body. Going around to the mills in the North, asking questions of the workers about what there do here," he explained.

"Do you mind that? If they tell the truth?" she asked, curious.

"Course not. I don't apologize to anyone about the wages I pay or how I run Marlborough Mill. It's no secret. It's in plain sight for all to see."

She admired his honesty. Based on Jenny's tale, mill owners taking advantage of their workers was a common thing. She was glad to hear that Mr. Thornton did not stoop to that level.

Mr. Thornton and Margaret came to a stop just outside the archway. Margaret turned to face him.

"And what about how they spend their money?" she asked. Surely it was of interest to him if his workers had enough to eat. Mr. Thornton crossed his arms and stared down at her.

"That would be none of my business. My duty is to the efficient running of the mill. If I neglect that, all the workers will cease to have an income," he told her. Margaret couldn't make sense of his expression. He was watching her with some deeply concealed emotion, but when he spoke his voice was measured and even.

"But what about your moral duty?" she insisted. That question seemed to amused him somewhat.

"If she keeps to her hours and does nothing to disrupt the honest and efficient working of the mill, what she does in her own time is not my concern. Here in the North, we value our independence," he told her, smirking slightly. Margaret smiled at that last statement. That was certainly true. She relished that part of moving to the North. Her expression clouded once more as she remembered her reason for coming to the mill today.

"But surely you must take an interest? It must be important to you that your workers are healthy and well-fed," she implored him. She needed him to see the benefits of helping his workers if she was to be successful with her venture.

"I'm her employer," insisted Mr. Thornton. "I'm not her father or her brother that I can command her to do as I see fit. Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Hale. I would like to play the overbearing master, but I cannot issue instructions that are unwarranted. Even against odd behaviour, if it does not disturb the running of things."

"Odd behaviour?" repeated Margaret, with a sinking feeling. He was talking about her masks; she was sure of it. His reply confirmed it.

"Aye. I've noticed some of the children and women going about with an odd contraption of their faces. I'm not sure what to make of it… but you do." His eyes narrowed suddenly, as he saw her guilty expression. "Yes… I do," she swallowed. "I meant to inform you, of course, but I wanted to see if the masks were effective before I came to you with my proposition."

"What proposition?"

"The masks are to stop the cotton dust from settling in the workers' lungs," she explained to him, elated again by her success. "Together with the wheel, they should dramatically reduce the cases of brown lung in the mill workers. I have made eleven so far, but I need funds to make the rest of them. I was hoping that if I presented you with the positive results of the experiment, you'd be inclined to fund the scheme. I've added it all up and it will not cost you much, only the cost of the wage of one additional worker."

"You made them yourself?" demanded Mr. Thornton.

"Yes. I experimented with several designs and chose the most effective one," she replied, and briefly outlined to him the details of her tests with the cloth and flour. He had not refused outright, which was a good sign.

"How did you think of this?" he asked. That intense look was back on his face, that look of longing. Margaret continued, slightly unnerved by his expression.

"Well, I did a lot of research. In the library I found reference to the Ancient Romans using animal bladders as masks to protect miners from inhaling lead dust. Leonardo da Vinci also detailed the use of a wet cloth to protect one's self against inhaling dangerous chemicals. And in the paper, I read recently that a device had been patented in America that used valves and wool. That description did not supply a diagram so I made up my own design," Margaret informed him excitedly. She was getting a little carried away by her enthusiasm, but was unable to stop herself.

"The mask needs to be submerged in water every hour or two to be most effective… but," she said in sudden inspiration, "that would be beneficial to a cotton mill would it not? The barrels of water needed could double as water troughs in case of fire. The workers would be able to reach them quickly, if they are placed at convenient intervals in the sheds, in addition to using them for their masks. Production would not need to stop that way; the workers could just dip their masks in as they moved passed it." Mr. Thornton was regarding he with a dazed expression.

"You have spent your time designing and experimenting with a mask to help the workers in my mill?" he asked, astounded.

"Well… to help all workers hopefully. But yes, in your mill to begin with," Margaret replied.

"That is… truly an ingenious idea. It will change their lives," he said, his eyes shinning with quiet excitement. "I will fund your venture. I'll give you all you need, gladly."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you Mr. Thornton. You won't regret it. I've made sure of its success," she enthused, reaching for his hand. She shook it with a little too much force in her exhilaration, but he grinned anyway.

"You are most welcome, Miss Hale," he returned warmly. Margaret suddenly noticed that Mrs. Thornton was standing on the balcony of the house, watching her son with a furious expression on her face. Margaret's cheeks heated and she quickly let go of Mr. Thornton's hand. Noticing her change in manner, he too turned and saw his mother. Mr. Thornton's smile disappeared.

"Come back to Marlborough Mill on Friday at one o'clock," he told her. "I will give you the funds then." He turned from her abruptly and hastened back inside the mill. Bemused by that, but still reeling from her success, Margaret practically skipped home.

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John went about the rest of the day in a cloud of happiness. Not even his mother's stern reprimand about about his conduct could shake his sunny mood. He was so pleased to learn that Miss Hale spent her time thinking about his mill. And thinking about it deeply enough to suggest improvements. That was what he wanted. He _wanted_ her to tell him all her ideas, her passions. He would have gladly paid three times the amount she asked, if only to see that look of sheer delight on her face again. Her ideas about the face mask and water barrels were good ones. The masks would make the workers healthier and hence their work would be improved. Metal troughs and a pipe system in the rafters were already inside the sheds, but the additional protection provided by the water barrels would not go amiss.

He wondered what else she had thought of. He wanted to race straight to Crampton and ask what was in her mind, but refrained. He did not want to startle her with his feelings. John wanted to reveal them to her slowly, not drown her in them. He wanted to give her a chance to respond and to use her reactions to assess her own feelings towards him.

He was confident they had moved passed hostility. They had argued passionately – how they had argued! – but now they had developed a camaraderie of sorts. Miss Hale spoke with him animatedly whenever he came to visit her father for his lessons. Her passion impressed him. He was like himself in that regard, he thought contentedly. She did not do things by halves. He did not decidedly know if she cared for him in any particular way yet, but there was plenty of time for him to attempt to court her. Starting with Friday. He decided to he would offer to give her a tour of the mill in its entirety. Hopefully she would be inspired to share more of her ideas with him and he could tell her his ideas in turn. He'd been compelled to make several large changes to the mill since he took it over and he wanted to explain the all to her.


	14. Chapter 12

*A/N: This is one of my favorite chapters!

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Chapter 12

"Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own"

'A worker was caught by his sleeve in the the loom. It didn't just take his shirt, it pulled his entire body toward the machine. His arm was ripped from his body at the shoulder. Blood just sprayed everywhere. He died in hospital. That machine was taken over by a worker whose had was crushed in the gears. Most of the workers refused to work at that one after that, so only the new ones did.'

Margaret sat, distraught, in the reading room of the library. She had visited the library wanting to read the surveys Mr. Thornton had mentioned. She had found a compilation of interviews with mill laborers. The author had not included any infliction in the workers' accounts, so even the most brutal answer was alarmingly unemotional. It seemed to Margaret as though the workers had been so worn down after years of harsh treatment that detailing these events were simply a restating of reality, not an aberration.

The interviewer asked questions about the length of hours, their proximity to the mill, conditions and breaks. She read accounts that detailed a two mile walk to the mill, there and back, in rain or snow. Most worked fourteen or sixteen hour days without only forty minutes for one meal a day. A few workers stated that they lived at such a distance from the mill that they awoke at four o'clock and were forced to go without breakfast in order to make it on time. They needed to be on time because many mills had a penalty system in place to discourage lateness. Margaret thought the penalty's cruel and unfair. Workers were beaten or received an enormous cut in the day's wages. Some interviewees detailed instances of overseers and masters purposely setting impossible standards or altering the time on the mill clocks in order to impose fines on the workers. Some masters even demanded a certain amount of revenue be achieved each month in fines. Workers could also be fined for talking or having an inadequately cleaned machine.

Some poor parents sold their children to the mill master in order to receive an insignificant sum in return. One instance Margaret read saw a six-year-old boy sold for fifteen shillings for six years of service. Masters who accepted child labor in this way would whip the children for attempting to run away. Some children had iron weights put around their necks or their ears nailed for the table for any manner of insubordination.

Workers were locked up in the mill overnight. They were doused with water in an effort to shock them awake if they dozed off during a shift. Some mills only had a single water closet for all 400 employees.

As well as gruesome accidents, they suffered lung disease, skin complaints, poor hygiene and little food. Many workers became deaf due to long exposure to the loud noises of the machines. Children were deformed due to the debilitating movements they were forced to perform for their jobs. Adults too suffered physical ailments and pains from constant movement. Rooms in the mill were poorly ventilated and dangerously heated.

On top of these horrible conditions, Margaret also learnt that the industry of cotton manufacture was very changeable. Workers were fired or receive a cut from their wages during times of a lessening in demands for cotton fabric.

'A child doffer passed out from lack on sleep one day. He fell straight over the top of the spinning mule and the spinner didn't see him fall. His body was crushed instantly.'

Margaret closed the book with a snap. She couldn't bear to read anymore. She had heard tell of some of these things about Milton, but nothing so harsh. She knew there was laws about child labor and safety in mills, but she also knew that uncaring masters would not follow them if they could get away with it.

She found her opinion of Mr. Thornton spinning backwards again, until she remembered her conversation with Jenny and Mary earlier. They had said he was an honest master. They too had spoke of accidents, but that is likely all they were – unfortunate accidents, rather than a deliberate cruelty on Mr. Thornton's part. Margaret also could not see the honorable Mr. Thornton using any of those unjust practices like fining or whipping of children.

Still, she did wonder at other things about the mills. Whether they had enough water closets, or meal breaks. The long hours, the heat, the sickness. The poor children who were kept from schooling in order to work. She began to wonder what she might do to help. She knew there was a labor union for the workers but she did not think she would be successful there. Even Margaret, ignorant of business, knew that masters would be unlikely to listen to a workers' union. They loathed the idea of taking orders from a group of illiterate men who knew little about how a mill was run as a business. She decided she would do more research and then present her ideas to Mr. Thornton. He had been receptive of her face masks. He would have more sway with the other masters as well. She decided she would ask him about his practices on Friday when she met with him about her venture.

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"John, do stop jostling your leg up and down like that," said his mother crossly. "You are shaking the whole table!" Chastised, John made an effort to still his movements. He'd been impatiently waiting in his office for Miss Hale. His mother had come in to ask after the household wages for this month and he had been quite unconscious of what he was doing until she snapped at him. His mother flipped through the mill accounts while John busied himself with retrieving the allotted funds from the safe.

"What has this sum been set aside for?" she demanded suddenly. Pointing at the ledger in the expenditures column, she tapped her finger against a sum of ten pounds. John inwardly cursed at his methodical ways. He'd written it in there to remind himself of the amount Miss Hale had asked for, forgetting that his mother also frequently looked through this book.

"Repairs for the carding equipment," he covered quickly. "I neglected to write in the purpose." He detested lying to her but he was not yet ready to reveal what it was for. He did not want to get her angry preemptively and cause her to lash out at Miss Hale. After the masks had been completed and handed out, he would reveal that it had been all Miss Hale's idea. Then he would try to explain to his mother that Miss Hale was more than just a pretty young woman after his fortune.

He was anxious for his mother to leave so that his time with Miss Hale would be uninterrupted. He'd deliberately scheduled this meeting to coincide with his mother's set time for paying calls. If she didn't leave now, he'd risk Miss Hale arriving at an inopportune moment. Thankfully, she did leave and John got almost no work done, so often did he leap out of his chair to look out the window for Miss Hale's approach. Finally, at one o'clock, a gentle knock sounded on his office door. John stood abruptly. He smoothed back his hair and straightened his cravat. He schooled expression into one approaching calm and opened the door to admit her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hale."

"Hello, Mr. Thornton. Thank you for meeting with me," she smiled. She was wearing a striking rose coloured gown. He smiled appreciatively and waved her inside, leaving the office door open for propriety's sake.

"Your office is beautiful. Elegant and logical," she told him. She ran her fingers across the spines of his books. "It is the epitome of what the South think's a Northern man's office looks like. I thought that the first time I was here."

"I'm glad I meet with you exacting standards," he returned, with a smile of his own. His heart lifted to hear her say so. He had been wrong earlier in their acquaintance. She was not prejudice against Milton men. It had only been that one incident that upset her, that one hurtful comment. Remembering the reason for her visit, he picked up the two five pound notes on his desk.

"Here you are, as promised. I look forward to seeing your completed work." He frowned as a sudden thought occurred to him. "I have 350 workers in my mill that will require masks. Surely you are not going to make all of them yourself?"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed. "I am going to ask the girls in the foundling home for help. They already sew shirts to sell so they are skilled with a needle. I will use some of the funds to pay them for their efforts."

"Ah," his expression cleared. "I remember your father telling me that you helped at the home. How is your maid scheme coming along?"

Miss Hale looked surprised that he remembered. "Quite well, thank you. I've already arranged for two of the girls to be placed with new families."

"I am glad to hear it," John replied. After a moment, he said, "Would you like a tour of the mill? Of all of it? I wish to hear more of your ideas for its improvement, if you would be obliged to share them with me."

She stared dumbfounded for a moment and then beamed at him. "I would indeed. Thank you. Would you believe that despite six months of living in Milton, I have not yet seen any factories in their entirety?" John grinned at that and gestured for her to proceed him out the door. He resisted the temptation to brush his fingers against her gown as she passed.

John guided her to the baling shed, deciding to begin as production did in the mill. The men were hard at work here, breaking and sorting the bales of raw cotton before feeding it into the spinning mill for further breaking, then into the blowing room for cleaning. He caught a piece of the raw fiber and showed it to her, touching his fingers to hers as they exchanged it. She brought it to her nose to smell and then rubbed it between her palms.

"It is so soft already. No wonder Milton cotton has such a reputation for quality. From where do you source it?"

"Egypt. It costs more but the supplies are steadier. I used to import it from the Caribbean but found delivery was disrupted so often that I lost profits. The workers' wages were disrupted often too, as I cannot give them what they are owed until I have received the payments from the buyers."

"I am glad to know you use Egyptian cotton, Mr. Thornton, and not that which is derived from slave labor," said Miss Hale, giving him a relieved smile.

"Ah. Yes." To his shame, John had not thought of it that way. He only ever looked at the books when buying the raw cotton, not who had harvested it. It was simply a coincidence that he had chosen as he had.

"Are all your commissions from London?" Miss Hale asked.

"No, I receive orders from all over the world. Mostly the British Empire but other countries as well. The one I am working to fulfil now is for an American importer." Miss Hale looked impressed by that.

He led her through the baling shed to carding room. The machines and workers were almost invisible due to the thick white flurries of cotton in the shed. He explained how the fibers were detangled and ordered into parallel lines by the carding machines. He'd also pointed out the ventilating wheel and received a satisfied smile in response.

He showed her the spinning room with some trepidation, thinking she might react badly to the necessary bare feet of the workers and the young children required to performing the doffing due to their nimble fingers. She surprised him however, by only glancing briefly at the workers' feet upon the slippery floor. The heat from the fires was intense in this room. John felt sweat break out instantly across his brow. It was also incredibly noisy. There was constant clanking as the mules were moved back and forth. It was not possible to carry a conversation in here, so after observing for a few minutes, he led her out of the shed. He could practically see her thoughts whirring in her mind.

"The heat is to stop the threads from snapping, I assume?"

"That's right. How did you know that?" he asked, perplexed.

Miss Hale's cheeks redden slightly. "I... I read some books on cotton mills after our last conversation. As well as some of those survey's you mentioned. I realized that I knew very little about the industry in Milton. I should know more about the place I live in. And If I am to argue my points with you, I must at least be on equal ground." She pressed her lips together in an effort to hide her grin. John chuckled, delighted to hear her say so.

"I understand they cannot wear shoes, but perhaps a mixture of sand and water could be put on the floor to make it less slippery," she mused. "And the masks to help with the dust. I did not anticipate the sound to be that strong. They must suffer deafness."

"Yes, some of them do." John was fascinated by her quickness of thought. Again, she had shown him that she spent her time thinking and researching cotton mills. He wondered if it was because of her connection with him or because of her connection to Milton. He desperately hoped it was the former.

The two of them stepped out of the way of the bobbin carriers who were running back and forth between the carding and spinning rooms. As the spinning room took elaborate skill to work in, each person moved with crisp efficiency. John explained to Miss Hale that a new worker was trained extensively before being permitted to work in this room. Each team developed personal tricks and codes unique to them and so it took a great deal of communication between them to ensure that no accidents occurred.

John showed her to the weaving room, the only part of the mill she had already seen. As he followed her along the expansive floor to the elevated walkway, John was surprised to see a few of the workers raise their hands to her or greet her with quiet words. He couldn't imagine why they would presume to speak to her. How had she come to know so many of the laboring class? Was it just due to her mask venture, or was their something else at play?

Miss Hale gathered her skirts about her legs and ascended the metal staircase. John was about to follow behind her until he saw the hem of her shift beneath her gown and realized the immodesty of his plan. He quickly averted his eyes away from her until she was at the top and then climbed up after her. He cleared his throat, hoping that she did not notice his sudden discomfort.

"I've spend a great deal of time training workers to complete their tasks within a set timeframe. Anyone who continuously falls below this standard is let go. Less mistakes are made and less material is wasted. Since I took over the mill five years ago, I've managed to increase production and profit twice over. I also rearranged the layout of the mill to be more logical and involve the least amount of physical distance between each process," he told her. She nodded but did not speak. He looked down and saw that Miss Hale was gripping the railings of the walkway quite tightly.

"Are you alright, Miss Hale?" he asked, brow creasing in concern.

"Oh, yes. I'm fine. I've just never been on a platform like this before. I feel rather wobbly all of a sudden. Being able to see the huge drop beneath through the metal flooring is also quite dizzying!" she laughed.

"The platform is very safe. A herd of elephants could walk along it and not bend it an inch," he assured her. She smiled crookedly at his joke.

"Is this where you spend most of your time, Mr. Thornton? Here in the weaving room?"

"I try and go all over the mill. I keep a superintendent in each shed so that production is being continuously watched. I'm summoned if there is a problem that the superintendents cannot fix; machine repair or suchlike. I spend a lot of time in the office as well, going over the business side of things. I do not keep a clerk; I prefer to do that work myself. It keeps me connected to the business," he replied. She looked at him, impressed.

"That's a great deal of work for one man. What is there left for Williams to do?" she teased good-humoredly. John smiled.

"I interfered greatly in the beginning. The habit was too ingrained in me from when I was overseer," he admitted. "I had trouble employing overseers and there was high turn-over in their numbers at the start of my operation. That's largely where my reputation as a ruthless master came from, I suspect."

"Perhaps," Miss Hale smiled. "I have since learnt that there is a difference between a master and a tyrant. I was not exposed to much discipline when I was growing up. My parent's preferred to govern with affection. Even now, I am able to do as I please almost without censure. It was not until I moved here that I realized how odd that was, and it was the reason why I had been so against strict actions in the beginning. But they are needed here, for work like this. I see that now." They were both silent at her words, taking them in. Miss Hale's eyes followed the movements of the children who were scuttling about on the floor. She squared her shoulders, then said, "I have read accounts of masters imposing fines upon their workers. Is that a practice that you follow?"

"No. I see no point in that. Their wages are low enough already."

"And the children are… treated fairly?" she asked hesitantly. John was momentarily confused by that statement until he realized she must have read some horrific account about it in a survey. He spun towards her, impatient to set her straight on that account.

"Yes, of course. They are paid their wage same as everyone else. They work with their parents if it can be arranged. And they are trained to not make mistakes." She relaxed slightly, but was not finished with her interrogation. It sounded to him as though she was checking things off from a list in her mind.

"They are not beaten or whipped? They are not sold to the mill?"

"No, Miss Hale," he told her firmly. "They are not."

She nodded, satisfied with his answers. He frowned as he considered her questions. Then he said, "Those surveys are done so that the public can see what conditions in the mills is truly like. They also force those that run their mills inhumanly to change their ways. The public outcry is such that one cannot continue to do business that way. Milton is a large enough city that a mistreated worker is able to find work at another mill or in another occupation entirely. The masters know this and so have done away with the cruelest practices. I will admit that some of the masters take amusement in riling up their workers, but they do not use the worst of those acts to do so."

"I am relieved to hear you say so, Mr. Thornton. I will admit that I was deeply disturbed by what I read. I am glad to know that your mill is not run in that fashion," said Miss Hale. "But, I must ask, how do you keep order in the mill if there are no fines or corporal punishments? I mean, I am glad there is not, but with this many workers housed together in such a manner, there must always be disputes."

"Aye, there are a fair number of them. But I have devised a system for monitoring their conduct." John pointed to a small cube of wood that was painted a different colour on each side of its face and fixed upon a spike so that it could be rotated. "Do you see those cubes at the end of each loom?"

Miss Hale shifted closer to him to see what he was indicating. It was clear she was looking for something larger than he described and it took her a moment to find the monitor. "Oh. I had not noticed those blocks before. What are they for?"

"Each colour represents a behaviour. Red for 'poor', white for 'indifferent', blue for 'good' and green for 'excellent'. The superintendents rotate the monitor every few days to reflect the weavers conduct to the rest of the workers. They tally up the number of times each colour has been used for each worker, which they show me every two weeks. Those that are continuously in the red are ordered to improve and are dismissed if they do not. Those that are in the green most often are given a reward of a few extra shillings."

Miss Hale listened to his explanation with rapt attention. "That is amazing, Mr. Thornton! What an excellent idea. Do the other masters know of it? Do other mills use this?" she asked excitedly when he finished.

John grinned at her enthusiasm. "They are aware, yes. Most don't use the monitors in their own mills, only Henderson does. Many of them believe that harsh punishments are the only way to be effective. So far, they have been unwilling to listen to my and Henderson's admission that the monitor works just as well, if not better."

"How unfortunate! If only they would comprehend the benefits of it," Miss Hale huffed in annoyance. After grousing for a moment, she turned back to him and tried to lighten the mood.

"The name of your mill is Marlborough, although the other owners name theirs after themselves. Was Marlborough the name of your predecessor?"

"Aye. I did consider changing it, but the previous owner taught me a great deal about the business. All of my early training in cotton came from him. I decided to leave it as a sign of good faith."

"That's a kind gesture," said Miss Hale smiling. "It has a nice ring to it, in addition to the sentiment." She watched the people below them for a time then said, "The workers only get one break halfway through their shift. Do you not find fatigue to be a problem? Surely more mistakes are made towards the end of the day, when the workers are tired."

John nodded his agreement, then sighed heavily. "It is when the most accidents occur as well. I wish it was not so, but nor can I stop production anymore than I already do."

She pursed her lips at that, considering. "What if the workers were given a small break in waves, instead of all at once? It could be arranged to work with the natural flow of the mill." She mimed the movement with her hands. "Those in the baling sheds could stop after a certain number of bales are complete, which would allow the carders a pause after a while, and so on through the mill."

John drummed his fingers on the railing and thought about her words. "It could work," he said slowly. "It would have to trialed and timed with precision. But yes, I believe it could work as you suggest." He bestowed a wide smile on her. "You'll put me out of a job yet," he told her teasingly.

"I am glad you are reflecting on my views, Mr. Thornton. I know I have no experience with the mill," she told him, slightly sheepish.

"On the contrary, Miss Hale, I am pleased to accept them with as much sincerity as I'm sure you make them."

He suggested they continue with the tour, as they had only the warehouse remaining. She maneuvered herself carefully back down the stairs and John made sure not to repeat his earlier mistake of rudely staring at her while she did so. Back out in the mill yard, John guided her to the warehouse where the finished bolts of cloth were stored; wrapped in grease paper to keep them from safe from dirt and moisture. The warehouse was connected to the weaving rooms and had huge doors that opened onto the courtyard, allowing the men to heave the bolts into waiting carts pulled by mules, which then transported the finished product to the canals for shipping; or to other factories for dyeing and printing. He took care to mention that the mules were housed comfortably in the stable at night, along with the pair of carriage horses; all of which was attended to by a stable boy and the groom. Miss Hale asked to visit the stable and John happily obliged her.

"Do you ride, Mr. Thornton?" she asked him, reaching out to pet one of the horses. It leant its head out of the stall to lip at her hand for a treat. She giggled.

"No, I do not. We did not own riding horses when I was growing up. And of course, it was not possible when I was older."

"Of course," she echoed faintly, her brow creasing in sorrow. She did not continue with that line of thought and John was grateful. He did want to tell her more about his childhood, but not right now. He did not want to spoil the perfect day with such unhappy thoughts. As though sensing that desire, Miss Hale changed the subject.

"Do you call a surgeon for your workers if they become ill while here at work?"

"If it is severe enough; accidents or fainting fits. Fanny claims to suffer from nervous spasms," John paused to huff at that, expressing to her exactly what he though of Fanny and her faux complaints; Miss Hale smiled, "and she uses a Dr. Donaldson and that is who we call for the workers. He charges exorbitant fees but Fanny likes him so I've kept with him."

"Have you inquired at the charity hospital?" When John shook his head in the negative, she continued. "The surgeon there is highly skilled and efficient. I'm sure he would not be opposed to your bringing workers into the hospital for treatment, provided a small annuity was donated to the hospital. It would be cheaper than using that physicians that indulges Fanny's fainting fits in an effort to rob you of your money," she told him shrewdly. John snorted. There was truth in that indeed.

John walked slowly with Miss Hale back to the entry gate. He did not want her to leave.

"Thank for taking the time to show me around, Mr. Thornton. It was most instructive. I must also tell you that I think it wonderful what you have done. How you have accomplished all this on her own merit. I admire that."

"I – ah. Thank you." John's heart stuttered at the compliment in a way that it never had before when others more experienced than she had praised his work. Miss Hale took her leave. He bid her goodbye softly. John stood at the gate and watched her walk back towards Crampton. Not until the last possible moment did he turn back into the mill.

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*Authors Note 1: In the BBC film, John says he sources cotton from America. I wrestled with this issue for a long time before deciding to change it to Egypt, even though this is not historically accurate for the time, as Egypt did not become a main cotton exporter until the American Civil War in the 1860s forced the Americans to give up their stronghold on the cotton trade for a while. But American cotton plantations used slaves to pick the cotton and Margaret would have known this. She would have resented the terrible treatment of the slaves in the same way she resents the poor conditions of the labourers in Milton. I did consider the idea that she did not know about it, but, again, that would have been unrealistic for her inquisitive personality. I also considered setting it in a fictional past where slavery never happened but that would have been incredibly disrespectful of me. And so I chose to source the cotton from Egypt.

*Authors Note 2: In the Victorian era, there were three classes of medical people; a physician was a member of the gentry and referred to as Dr., a surgeon was considered a tradesman (because their work consisted of manual labor, which disqualified them from the gentry) referred to as Mr., and an apothecary who supplied medicines but could also be asked to give medicine advice, also a tradesman. By calling a physician for his workers, John is showing Margaret the he does not, in fact, think his workers are beneath him.


	15. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"I beseech you; Wrest once the law to your authority: To do great right, do a little wrong"

Margaret and Caoimhe stared at the misshapen lumps on the kitchen counter. They were vaguely round in shape and iced inexpertly in white. Dixon's cakes never looked so haphazard.

"I kno' it looks a bit odd, bu' it's the taste that counts. I used the best flour and the bakin' powder from the new can. And I put raisins in it," Caoimhe told Margaret brightly. Margaret could only smile uncomfortably in response. When she had told Dixon and Caoimhe about the cakes that were needed for the bake sale, Caoimhe had proudly exclaimed that Dixon had been teaching her to cook and that she would be happy to provide Margaret with a cake. Margaret readily agreed, glad that Caoimhe was enthusiastic. Now however, having viewed the final results, she wondered if she had been too hasty in her agreement.

'Well, let's have a taste of it then," said Margaret cautiously. She wondered if one could become poisoned from a cake.

She and Caoimhe took a piece from the smaller of the cakes that Caoimhe had made especially for this purpose. Margaret put the small bite in her mouth and was immediately assailed by the taste. It was a burnt, sour flavor made even more hideous by the syrupy icing.

" _Mo dhia!_ It's terrible!" gagged Caoimhe, "Whatev' was in tha' box weren't raisins!"

Margaret spat her mouthful into her handkerchief. Caoimhe spat hers into the sink. She wiped her mouth then looked mournfully at her cake, then at Margaret.

"What do we do now? The sale is this afternoon!" wailed Caoimhe.

"It's alright. We'll just have to start again," replied Margaret anxiously. She looked wildly about the kitchen for inspiration. The recipe Caoimhe had followed had been from a ladies' magazine, but Margaret did not want to attempt it again in case it was another failure. She wished Dixon was here but she and Mama had gone off on an errand together. The sale was only a few hours away and the two girls had almost not a wit of cooking experience between them.

"We'll make pound cake," said Margaret suddenly. "That can't be too difficult, it's all there in the name. Caoimhe, run to the store and get two pounds of eggs and two pounds of butter. I'll stoke up the stove again."

Caoimhe fled to do as Margaret bid, desperate to correct her mistake. Margaret heaped more coals into the stove. She was uncertain as to how long it would take to bake a pound cake but reasoned that if it was checked on often enough they should be alright. Caoimhe returned promptly and she and Margaret set about mixing the ingredients for two cakes. They were poured into the trays and obsessively checked by the two of them, in between Margaret racing up to her room to get ready.

Caoimhe declared them finished. She showed Margaret how to inset a thin twig into the side of the cake to check that the mixture was cooked all the way to the middle.

"They still look dreary," worried Caoimhe. "Th' picture of that other cake was so pretty." Margaret agreed. She hunted through the cupboards until she found a jar of candied fruit. She arranged them in a pattern on the top of the cakes, then dusted them over with fine white sugar.

"There. That looks a bit more festive doesn't it?"

"Aye, miss! Nice and summery," agreed Caoimhe. Caoimhe carefully cut the cakes into squares and arranged them artfully onto the china dishes Margaret laid out.

They put the plates into baskets and covered them with cloth. They walked to the Lyceum quickly, anxious for nothing else to go wrong before they got there. Margaret thought it a pity that it was being held inside. For once, there was no fog or rain. The August day was lovely and warm. Margaret was driven to remove her shawl once they arrived, having exerted herself in their dash to the Lyceum.

"Oh good, you are here at last," griped Mrs. Latimer. Margaret's apologies fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Latimer steered her into the room and told her where to put the goods.

"Quickly now, people are already beginning to arrive!" she scolded. The two girls anxiously set out their plates.

Margaret was impressed by the room. Mrs. Latimer had good taste. Thick white tablecloths were flung over the tables. The curtains were tied back to allow light to stream into the darkly paneled room. Baked goods and bouquets of flowers – the latter taken from Mrs. Latimer and Miss White's gardens – were arranged tastefully along the tables. A tea service was set up in the far corner and guests were to be charged a penny a cup. Each of the organizers and their maids manned a table. Mrs. Latimer had handled the invitations and had not skimped on her guest list. Some forty families of all shapes and sizes came for the event. Mrs. Davies stood at the door and accepted a small entrance fee.

Elegantly dressed men and women worked their way slowly through the room, admiring the displays. Margaret noticed that Mrs. Latimer did not claim the idea as her own if people asked her about its origins directly, but she did not correct those who thanked her for her ingenious idea. That irritated Margaret slightly, but she decided to let it pass. Mrs. Latimer and the other ladies had worked hard at organizing the event, and it was a group effort.

Mrs. Thornton put in an appearance. Fanny came too, for once looking appropriately dressed for the occasion. Mrs. Thornton looked briefly surprised at Margaret's position as volunteer, but then her expression dissolved back into her customary frown. She made a show of purchasing something from the tables either side of Margaret's, while pointedly avoiding Margaret's own. Fanny gave Margaret a vague smile but did not come over to speak with her. Margaret wondered why she had done to irritate Mrs. Thornton so. She had disliked Margaret from the moment they met, if not before.

After two hours, all the tables had been cleared of goods and the guests dispersed. Margaret and Caoimhe helped the others clean up the hall. Mrs. Latimer enthusiastically told all the members of the Ladies' Aid that she estimated that they had raised nine pounds and seven shillings.

"Hopefully we'll be able to raise twice that amount with the concert next month," she told them.

"What a crowd!" exclaimed Caoimhe as she and Margaret made their way back home. "I've never seen so many crazy dresses in my life! It's a wonder those women could even fit through the door. Those wide skirts made it look as though there were twice as many people than there really was."

"Yes, current fashions have become quite strange," laughed Margaret. "Fashion is constantly changing. That's what I like best about it. Fifty years ago, women used to wear thin dresses that were almost see-through. And years before _that_ , women wore their hair to such heights that they looked twice as tall as the men did."

"See-through!" cried Caoimhe. "I canna imagine that! They must have been terrible cold all the time."

"I'd say so."

"Oh Lord, Mairead!" gasped Caoimhe suddenly. "Can ya imagine that old crab Mrs. Thornton in a see-through dress?" Margaret gave a screech of laughter. She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked around to make sure no one had overheard them. The two girls quickly trotted the rest of the way home, laughing all the while.

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"Have you been hearing the gossip about town, Margaret?"

Margaret's stomach swooped at Sarah's words. She almost spilt the jar of dried ginger she was measuring. Was it Fred? Had someone connected him to her family? She turned to Sarah anxiously.

"What gossip?"

"About a strike at the mills. Some of the workers have been muttering about it again," she replied, looking a bit stupefied at Margaret's overreaction. Margaret let out a shaky breath. Not Fred then. But still disquieting, given the large number of mills in town.

"I've read about strikes before. None of them seem to have been successful. They are asking for higher wages I presume?" asked Margaret. Sarah nodded, arranging several shiny medical tools onto a tray.

"Aye, they've been clamoring for higher wages for years. There was a strike a few years ago but nothing came of it, it was over before it even got going."

"Do the masters meet with the workers? Hear their demands?"

Sarah snorted. "Course not. They don't want their own hands telling them what to pay them. The workers' union is always saying they've wrangled a meeting with the higher ups, but they never have. I don't know why people still trust the union, but most of them swear by it. I don't know why. They'd be good if they did something, but the one here in Milton doesn't do anything besides cause trouble."

"What happens to the mills while the laborers refuse to work?"

"I'm not sure. The last strike only lasted a week or so. The mills stopped production and then continued up again once the hands slinked back, begging for work."

"Mr. Thornton told me that the masters are unable to pay the workers until all the orders have been filled and the supplies paid for. Surely the workers know that? It seems counterproductive to refuse to work in this way, knowing that it will only hurt one's self," mused Margaret. A strike would get the masters attention, certainly, but if higher wages were the goal, it seemed an illogical way to go about it.

"That it is," Sarah agreed, preparing to take the tray to the surgery. "Hopefully it'll not last long this time either. The backbone of Milton is cotton. The hands must realize that without the mills, the city would fall."

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On Sunday, Margaret went to visit Bessy and Nicholas. She brought a few small offerings with her, including her psalm book which she meant to gift to Bessy. Bessy was thankful to receive the gifts, but she and her father also seemed on edge. Sensing the tension, Margaret asked if there was something amiss in her visit.

"No, Margaret. I am glad of the gifts, truly. It is only Father and I were arguing a bit afore you came. About the strike," Bessy told her.

"Oh. I have heard it mentioned around. I do not know much about it," said Margaret carefully. She did not want to start another row.

"It'll be the greatest thing Milton has ever seen. Every single hand in every mill all walkin' out together and the masters'll not be able to do a thing about it," said Nicholas fervidly. Bessy made a small noise of annoyance. It was easy for Margaret to see which of the Higgins' was on which side of the strike debate.

"If we all refuse to work _we_ will be the strong ones!" he insisted.

"But," said Margaret tentatively. "What will the workers live off of while the strike lasts?"

"All union members pay strike dues into the union. We'll give it back bit by bit until the strike is over. Will all of us together, it'll last a week," Nicholas vowed.

"Are you one of the union leaders?" asked Margaret surprised.

"Aye. About three years now. This strike will go better. Not like five year' ago, when half of us wen' back to work afore the others. I'm managin' this strike better. No violence. Masters expect us t' behave like animals. We've got'a show them we are thinking men. We will not be out-thought! The only enemy of our strike is ourselves."

"But not every worker in Milton is in the union. They will have no money if they refuse to work, and no strike pay. How will the union look after them all?" asked Margaret perplexed. She did not think strike could be organized on such a scale as Nicholas was envisioning. It would mean thousands of men, women and children staying home and refusing to work. More men belonged to the union, but more women worked in the mills. Men could always fend for themselves, but women had children to look after. Margaret thought the women would be less likely to walk out.

"The union'll look after its own. But the others will be told that it will benefit all o' us to strike. More pay, better conditions. The masters'll be forced to be fair for once!" he said angrily.

Margaret wisely said no more. She sympathized greatly with the workers but she did not believe a strike was the way to achieve what they wanted. The masters could always get more workers. And there would be those that did not join in the strike, which would weaken the union's numbers.

Nicholas left after a while to go to the Golden Dragon for a drink with the other union leaders. Bessy told Margaret she'd never seen her father so riled up. He was certain they would win this time.

"Just as they were certain five years ago, and no doubt certain the time afore that," Bessy sighed. "This stike'll be the death of me, Margaret. Even if they win. I canna take the strain of it all."

"Don't talk like that," Margaret reproached her. "You are getting better. You said yourself your cough is much better since the mustard and jimsonweed."

"Aye, but you heard what the doctor said. He told us I was dyin'"

'He also said some can live with it for years. So let's not give up hope yet, dear," returned Margaret comfortingly.

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The masters had called a meeting at Godfrey's, the masters' men's club, to discuss what to do about it the whispers of strike that had started up again. John had been greatly angered by what he'd heard so far. The others were not planning on the treating the workers fairly. They wanted to punish the union leaders and were using the easier targets of the leaders' impressionable followers to do so. Harkness' plans in particular were dangerous. He was gambling with all of the mill owners' livelihoods for his own gain. John walked away from them to the side table. He poured himself a glass of whiskey irritably, trying to control his irritation. Undeterred by John's abrupt departure, Harkness' nasal voice sounded through the smoky room.

"I don't know why you're blaming me!"

"You can play your tricks out to your own workers. That's your decision. But if you get it wrong, we all suffer," John snapped.

"I heard a rumor they asked for a twenty percent increase in wages! That's four extra shillings a week for all of the three hundred workers in my mill! I had to set them to rights! Would you give into them with those demands?"

John thunked his glass back on the table in irritation and turned abruptly to face Harkness. "No, but I would've told 'em straight. I wouldn't pretend I were thinking about it and tell them to come back on payday, so that I could turn them down flat and provoke them!"

Harkness swelled up in anger. "Are you accusing me of trying to encourage a strike?"

"You're telling me that it wouldn't have suited you? It's their lives and our livelihood you're playing with," John growled. If a strike did happen, John knew that Harkness would use the workers own hunger and desperation against them, offering to take back workers for higher wage and then refusing to pay them any extra, citing their involvement in the strike as the reason.

"You would handle your workers better?" accused Harkness.

"I would not deliberately deceive them."

Having had enough, John stalked out of the club. He began to think on his plan if I did come to a strike. It was merely whispers now, nothing specific, but he knew the behaviour of Harkness and masters like him would exacerbate the problem. John did not think all of his workers would walk out. His wages and working conditions were better than most, especially now with Miss Hale's project underway.

But enough would walk that production would be delayed and there were several large orders to be filled in the coming months. An important one in particular that was bound for Honduras. His mill was run with such careful precision that unskilled waifs could not do the work. And if the weavers and spinners in Milton refused to work, that would be all that was left to hire. Mulling it over, John decided that if a strike was announced and if it went on for longer than a week, he'd use Irish workers. He would send Williams to Dublin to round up any Irish cotton laborers that wanted work, then ferry them across to Milton. It would be an expense, but he'd do it rather than give in.

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Margaret was in the drapers, searching out some buttons and ribbons. Her new coat was complete, only awaiting the finishing touches. Margaret had seen some charming military style buttons in this store previously and wanted to see if they were still available.

"Good afternoon Miss Hale," said a dry voice from behind her. Turning, Margaret saw Mrs. Thornton. She was wearing her usual scowl, the expression she always seemed to wear when looking at Margaret. Margaret could think of nothing she had done to invoke the woman's dislike this time.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Thornton," replied Margaret politely.

"Are our Milton wares up to your standards?" asked Mrs. Thornton crisply.

"Yes…," said Margaret slowly. She did not know why Mrs. Thornton seemed to latch on to the idea that Margaret did not like Milton. Or perhaps she simply wanted to call attention to the fact that Margaret was not from the North and therefore lacking. Mrs. Thornton ran her hand over a display of cotton fabrics. Margaret could see by the stamp in the corner that the cotton in question was from Marlborough Mill. Mrs. Thornton narrowed her eyes at Margaret.

"Even you, not remotely interested in industry might know that there is talk of a strike. One that will affect the whole of Milton," she said waspishly. Her tone suggested that Margaret herself was somehow responsible for the strike! Margaret bristled. This woman seemed determined to insult her, despite the fact they knew so little about each other. Margaret couldn't believe she got such opinions about her from Mr. Thornton, since he was always quite polite when they spoke. He had even been kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule and show her around the mill and help ease her misgivings about the treatment of the mill workers. He had put their initial mistakes behind him, why couldn't his mother do the same?

"They'll be wanting higher wages no doubt. I can see no harm in wanting that," retorted Margaret, deliberately vexing Mrs. Thornton.

"That is what they will say. But the truth is... that there are some that raise themselves to be masters, while others –," she fixed Margaret with a menacing stare, "– will always seek to pull them down."

Margaret felt that statement had been laced with unwarranted hostility. She did not think Mrs. Thornton had been referring only to the mill workers, but to Margaret herself, which was an absurd idea. Margaret did not want to pull anyone down. In fact, she thought Mr. Thornton's accomplishments to be an amazing feat and a credit to his character. But she saw no reason to try and convince Mrs. Thornton of her opinion. She'd likely not believe it anyway.

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"Preparations already?" asked John, surprised to see his mother hard at work at her writing desk. The dinner party that his mother gave every September was not for another three weeks.

"If we are going to entertain, we must do it properly," his mother replied shortly. She'd been out of sorts with him for a while now. She was annoyed at all the time he spent at the Hales. She did not believe that John needed the type of education that Mr. Hale offered; nothing practical or useful. John had tried to explain that it made him think in new ways, expand his horizons. How could one hope to succeed in the future if one did not know the past, if only to avoid the same errors? His mother would not listen. She also disproved wholeheartedly of Miss Hale, no matter what John told her. Fanny disliked them as well. John knew Fanny was jealous of Miss Hale for being more worldly than she was.

"So... who's on the list?" he asked, trying to make an effort to dispel the strain between them.

"Fosters, of course. Slicksons. Mr. Bell will no doubt want to stick his nose in. Browns will decline, but we must invite them all the same. The Hales will come, I presume?" she asked acidly. John opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Fanny.

"They are probably aware of the very great advantage it would be to Mr. Hale, to be introduced to people like the Fosters," Fanny said peevishly. John turned to her, annoyed.

"I am sure that motive would not influence them, Fanny," he said. John went to the sofa and picked up _The Times_ , resolving to ignore the pair of them, lest he say something disagreeable. Fanny, however, was not finished.

"How you seem to _understand_ these Hales, John," she said sarcastically, flipping her curls over her shoulder. "Do you really think they are so very different from any other people we meet?"

John did not reply. He did indeed think that. Mr. Hale was a warm and welcoming friend and tutor. He always had a way of explaining things that made John feel comforted rather than ignorant. And Miss Hale… Miss Hale was rapidly consuming his every waking thought, and many of his dreams.

"He seems a worthy kind of man... but rather too pensive for trade. His wife's a bit of a fine lady, with all her low spirits. As for the daughter –," Mother's voice darkened. John tensed. "She gives herself such airs! An' yet they're not rich, an' never have been. She was only visitin' with that Aunt of hers in London. Sounds to me as though Miss Hale was a companion, not a guest," she said in revulsion.

"And she's not accomplished, Mother," supplied Fanny triumphantly. "she can't even play the piano –."

"Go on, Fanny. What else does she lack to bring'er up to your standard?" cut in John angrily. That was just like Fanny, cutting someone just because they did not meet her absurd criteria.

Mother looked annoyed by her son's forceful defense. "I heard Miss Hale say she could not play myself, John! If you would let us alone, we would perhaps see her merits and like her."

Safely hidden behind his newspaper, John rolled his eyes. Nothing short of a miracle would change his obstinate mother. He usually relied so heavily on her steadfast ways, but in this instance, it only irritated him.

"I'm sure I never could," said Fanny rudely. She stood up and petulantly sat herself further away from John. John sighed. He wished his mother and sister would like the Hales. Due to the smallest, possible hope that he might attract Miss Hale's interest, he wanted his family to like her, and welcome her into their home. Perhaps he ought to confess some of what he was feeling. Maybe then his mother would be more receptive. Seeing his mother had her mouth set in a thin line of irritation, John got up and wandered over to her.

"I wish you would try to like Miss Hale, Mother," he said quietly.

She snorted. "Why? You've not formed an attachment to her, have you?" John's mother rolled her eyes at the absurdity that before John could even answer. "Mind you, she'll never have you. Aye, she once laughed in my face at the thought of it, I am sure she did," she scoffed.

John felt a sharp pain twist in his heart at her words. He'd had these doubts himself. He seemed to swing back and forth between such extremes; elation at his feelings and despair at her lack of them. She treated him kindly, but she was a kind person. It was probably not due to any particular interest in him. His mother seemed to share his opinion. Miss Hale would never have him. He'd not realized he'd spoken this last though aloud until his mother voiced her agreement.

"She's too good of an opinion of herself to take you."

John felt a heavy weight settle on him. It was likely his mother was right. Miss Hale would never return his feelings. She was bright, passionate and animated. It made him feel cold and insensitive by comparison. He wished he was more articulate so that he might use his words to tell her how he felt. In novels, men always wrote poetry or intense love letters to the source of their affection. John did not have the taste or the learning for such a thing. He felt ridiculous just thinking it. He had tried to show her that he cared for her through his actions, which wasn't difficult. He'd asked after her opinions, enjoying the way her face lit up when she thought of something new. He practically hung on her every word when he gave her the tour of his mill. His eyes were always drawn to her person, no matter if they were three feet apart or thirty.

But she was still maddeningly difficult to decipher. She was a highborn London lady, and yet consorted with laborers and charity urchins. She had a sophisticated education and chose to use it to better the lives of those less fortunate than herself. She employed maids for the sole purpose of helping them further their trade in service. She spent her leisure time sketching places of industry when she had previously been exposed to all manner of art and sculpture from around the world. He could not make Miss Hale out. He had no idea how she would react to a man of trade paying her court. Sometimes he though she would welcome it; other times he was sure she would be deeply offended by his presumption.

John realized his mother had inadvertently given him an opportunity to perhaps discover Miss Hale's feelings. The Hales were being invited to the Thornton dinner. Miss Hale had never seen John in a social setting before, only at work or in her father's house as a pupil. Perhaps at a dinner party, a natural location for courtship, he might get the opportunity to voice his feelings.

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The warm summer air was quickly being pushed aside by crisp September winds. The leaves were already beginning to fall. They were approaching the thin months. Less cotton was sold in winter, and so there was less work and less food. The first year that he had taken over the mill, John had been forced to cut his workers hours back by ten hours a week. But now the public had become more receptive to cotton fabrics, and production, while not as intense as it was in summer, was steady. Many of the warmer countries in the British Empire also made higher demands for cotton. Milton's proximity to Liverpool and consequently the trade route through the North Atlantic, made it a logical choice for orders of textiles to be made and easily delivered to the British West Indies.

John was waiting in the office of Mr. Jenkins at the charity hospital. Miss Hale's comment of a few weeks ago had stuck with him. He'd examined his books and discovered it would indeed be cheaper to become a patron of the hospital and donate an annual sum than continue to use Mr. Donaldson for his workers.

John had been informed that Mr. Jenkins was with a patient, but that he would soon be finished. John gazed around the office, looking at the medical books and diagrams on the walls. An illustration of a dissected brain was a particularly disturbing one.

The door opened and a thin man with a moustache entered.

"Ah, Mr. Thornton! How pleased I was to get your letter. Yes, of course, I'd be more than happy to look after your workers if I need to. You can ask them to come by at their own leisure, or bring them in yourself, whichever suits."

"Thank you. I am pleased to be able to help your hospital. I have been told you do good work here."

"Yes indeed, I run a tight operation. Shall I give you a tour of the premises? I'll explain what your donation will be used for."

The hospital was organized in a logical manner which pleased the manufacturer in John. It was well lit and clean. Most peculiarly, was the scent that John could smell. It was the same scent he often detected on Miss Hale, a mixture of sour draughts and herbs. As Mr. Jenkins explained the structure of the hospital, John realized that this seemed like the very place in which Miss Hale would thrive. And it was connected to the foundling home, where he knew Miss Hale did spend her time. He turned to Mr. Jenkins, almost cutting off the end of his explanation about the uses of chloroform.

"Is one of the volunteers here a Miss Hale? Miss Margaret Hale?" he clarified.

"Oh, yes. She is a fine young woman. The patient's respond very well to her, she has quite the knack for this work. Are you acquainted with her?"

"I am one of her father's pupils."

"Splendid! It was she who told you about my hospital, I'll gather?" asked the doctor shrewdly. "Margaret told me that she invented a face mask for the workers in the mills. Ingenious design. And I'm sure she has many more ideas just like it."

John made a noise of agreement. "Is she here today?" he asked, casting his gaze about the ward.

"No, Margaret usually comes earlier in the week."

"Do your volunteers help in the surgery?" He did not like the idea of Miss Hale being exposed to such terrible things. She knew her own limits of course, but the thought of her in any discomfort brought an ache to John's chest.

"No, the volunteers don't. They often do not have the training for it. We use the volunteers in the wards to free up the nursing sisters time for more urgent matters."

John was glad to hear it. An image of Miss Hale covered in blood or dying of some debilitating disease flashed across his mind. He shook his head firmly to dislodge the thought. Miss Hale was fine, she knew what she was doing, he scolded himself.

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"Alright, hold still now. This will hurt a lot, but once they're out, you'll feel much better."

Sarah and Margaret exchanged a quick look of agreement, then began to gently ease out the jagged splinters imbedded in the man's leg. He clenched his teeth and hissed at the pain. His wife stroked his head in sympathy, her face pale with worry. The pieces varied in size. Some could be removed with fingers, others required the use of tweezers. The blood from the wound pooled onto the sheet Margaret had pressed up against his leg.

Sarah kneaded her palm against the injury, checking to see that all the pieces had been removed. "Can you feel any splinters still?" she asked the man. He gingerly straightened his leg and tensed it slightly.

"Nah, I think ya got 'em," he said gratefully. Margaret carefully uncorked the bottle of alcohol she'd put on the table. She poured it onto the cloth Sara held out. Sarah then began to press the soaked cloth into the wounds to ward off corruption.

The man cursed at the burn of it. "Eh, steady on! That'd be more use to me drunk, not poured over!"

"It'll be more use to use this way in the long run," retorted Margaret. She reached for a clean cloth and began to sponge the blood from her hands. She and Sarah then wrapped the man's leg with sterile bandages.

"We'll come back next week to see how you're fairing. Make sure not to remove the bandages," Sarah told the couple.

Margaret and Sarah had been in Winslow, one of the working-class districts, doing their patient rounds when the man's wife had flagged them down and asked them to help her husband. There had been a minor accident at his factory; one of the wooden carts had been crushed, its pieces exploding in all directions. The silly man had continued his shift and then hobbled home on his injured leg, further worsening the injury. And instead of going to the hospital, he'd gone home. It was lucky that Margaret and Sarah happened to be in Winslow this afternoon delivering medicines.

As their skills improved, the two girls – some of the only steady volunteers – had been given more responsibilities at the hospital. One of them was visiting discharged patients in their homes to deliver additional doses of medicine that the patients who, for one reason or another, were unable to retrieve themselves. Margaret and Sarah enjoyed these errands together. The long walks between the hospital and the poor districts left plenty of time for laughing and chatting.

They had been given a medical bag, in addition to the medicines. The bag was filled medicinal goods, bandages, a lancet, tweezers, and scissors, plus a pipe and syringe for administering some of the medications.

Margaret was glad these visits. She was pleased to be helping those in need. She had been surprised at the variety of poor folk in Milton. Some were truly destitute; homeless and without employment. Some were just scraping by – a husband the sole breadwinner and supporting a wife and multiple children. Most were of a more stable kind. The husband and elder children working; enough money for food and rent, but not much else. No savings or entertainments.

The thing they all seemed to have in common was grime and sickness. Some came to the hospital for treatment, but many did not. This was not the first impromptu medical aid that she and Sarah had been asked to provide. Margaret and Sarah had taken care to mention that the patient's and their family must keep themselves clean if they are to avoid the worst of the diseases. They told them they must store food correctly and boil water before consuming it. Margaret was unsure how much was getting through to them. They seemed to view her advice as a luxury, not a fact that must be adhered to.

It was clear that the poor class needed better education and better standards of living if they were to survive. Humanitarians like Mrs. Latimer and Mr. Jenkins wrote to the Mayor and other council members, pleading for more funding and better support systems, but they're requests often when unheeded. The upper-class seemed to be of the view that the poorest people brought their destitution on themselves. Margaret thought this grievously unkind, and a dangerous way of thinking.

It was the middle-class that seemed to be most sympathetic to the poor. This was the class that was continuously expanding, every day it seemed. With all these new modern inventions and schemes, anyone with a bit of coin and a good head on their shoulders was able to do well for themselves. There was a growing number of people who attended lectures and night classes, joined societies and political groups.

Mr. Thornton was a perfect example of this. He had told Margaret that he'd been impoverished once, but had worked hard to better himself. If only the working-class could be given the opportunities Mr. Thornton had, maybe they too could rise out of poverty.


	16. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"So many the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceived with ornament"

Margaret took a step back from the dress form, vastly proud of her creation. In defiance of current fashions for evening gowns, Margaret had designed her gown with long, tight elbow-length sleeves that made her appear tall and willowy. The skirt flared outwards from her hips and included a painstaking number of pleats. The neckline, no more than four fingers span all around, fell off either shoulder, with just a peak of lace beneath it, to show off her graceful neck. She'd embroidered the hem of the skirt with tiny stitches in a pattern reminiscent of sunlight. She'd used the same shade of thread of darkest green as was the colour of the gown, so that it would appear as though the fabric there was moving of its own volition. The entire gown was made of an exquisite silk brocade, just heavy enough to be able to be worn in the cooling weather.

Margaret and her mother had worked on the dress almost ceaselessly for three weeks, ever since they'd received the invitation to the Thornton's dinner party. Margaret had the design for the dress buried in her sketch book from a few years ago. Her mother had found it and claimed it would be perfect to wear to the dinner.

"I wonder what Mrs. Thornton's face will look like when she sees you in this?" Mama guffawed inelegantly. Margaret had told her mother about the odd conversation she'd had with Mrs. Thornton in the drapers, and the encounter at the bake sale. Mama had taken it as a personal attack on Margaret and was determined to show up the mean-spirited woman.

"I must say, I never liked her from the start. I still remember what she when she came to visit, how she positively boasted about her son. Why, it was almost unseemly."

"Mama, it was hardly that. She's proud of what he's achieved, and rightly so," Margaret admonished gently. She loathed to be too critical however, as her mother seemed to finally becoming more tolerant of Milton. Or perhaps worn down into submission was a more apt description. Mrs. Hale had, to the surprise of everyone, taken it upon herself to help with Margaret's training school. While Mrs. Hale had never had cause to do chores in her life, she did dearly love to tell people what to do. It was a natural progression for her to tell the new maids how things ought to be done in a fine house. Mama had also made a few friends at church and was now able to call on several new friends. She even accompanied Margaret on a trip to the foundling home.

It seemed that all of the Hales had found that their move to Milton had brought about positive changes in their lives, Margaret in particular. Out from Edith's influence for the first time, Margaret was not thinking of beaux or the best way to make herself agreeable. She was finally able to relax and be herself. She had more freedom here. She could do as she pleased and spend time with whomever she wished.

Margaret and her mother heard the front door open and close below them. "That'll be your father home from the station with Mr. Bell. Let's go down to the drawing room and greet them," said Mama, with one last appreciative glance at the gown. Margaret followed her mother into the room a little reluctantly. Mr. Bell had journeyed from Oxford to attend the Thornton dinner and spend the week with his old friend Mr. Hale. Margaret had no great liking for Mr. Bell due to his unique blend of patronizing remarks and eccentric behaviour. He was her godfather but Margaret had not seen him very often when she was growing up. He usually came to the parsonage in Helstone – unannounced – and showered the family with gifts. He'd given Margaret a hope chest for her thirteen birthday, proclaiming that all pretty girls must have such a thing. It was a lovely intricate strongbox with a gold filigree trim; however, it was a wildly extravagant gift to receive from a man whom she knew only slightly.

Mama was greeted with warmth by Mr. Bell. He then turned to Margaret and gave a dramatic start of surprise. "Well, Richard, I thought then she would grow into a handsome young woman, but this goddess I'd never have imagined!"

Margaret wrinkled her nose at that, faintly disgusted. Mr. Bell was one of those unfortunate men who thought they were complimenting women when in fact he was unnerving them.

"Come, come, Adam, Margaret will not understand your humour," said Papa reprovingly.

"Oh! No offence, my dear."

"Of course not. I – I am pleased you've come to visit at last," replied Margaret, without much sincerity.

"With all this talk of strike, I thought I'd better check with my banker whether I should sell up my property and make haste to South America!" guffawed Mr. Bell, exaggerating as usual.

"I don't believe it'll come to that. We're not even sure that there will be a strike, are we, Papa?" said Margaret.

"There has been mutterings of a strike, but nothing too alarming. But it does seem to be that masters and workers will never see eye to eye. I have heard some dreadful tales from the workers about their treatment. They have arguments for the strike which appear to me to be entirely logical. You know they suffered a pay cut five years ago and most never got back to those wages," supplied Mr. Hale sadly. "But then John Thornton comes to read and he answers my questions and puts the other side so eloquently... now I truly don't know what to think."

"There are arguments for both sides, that is certain," said Margaret. "I believe both views have merit. But it is the strikers who suffer more earnestly and so evoke the most sympathy. The mill owners have their wealth to fall back on, and, worst comes to it, have the means to start a new business. Only the workers will lose if the strike fails."

"That's true. I'm surprised the Thornton's are having a dinner, with trouble looming," said Mr. Hale.

"Oh, the Thornton's have the dinner on exactly the same date every year. Time nor tide stops for Mrs. Thornton's dinners. She does not turn back for any man!" exclaimed Mr. Bell.

"Now, _that_ is very true," Margaret smiled. If there was thing to admire – and loathe – about Mrs. Thornton, it was her determination.

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Caoimhe helped Margaret into her corset and eased the gown over her petticoats and crinoline, exclaiming over how elegant Margaret looked.

"Just like a princess, Mairead," she breathed.

Margaret stuck her tongue out at the nickname. "Alright, now the slippers. I can't even reach my own feet!"

"That's how you know yer'a princess," laughed Caoimhe. The slippers were highly impractical, tied on only with sheer ribbons and almost transparent with thinness. Luckily, Mr. Bell had hired a carriage to take himself and the Hales to the Thornton's. Margaret glided over to her dressing table and together, she and Caoimhe brushed her hair up in a simple style of a bun and braids, studded through with gold pins. Margaret lifted her powder brush and applied a few quick sweeps to her face. As she was so pale, she also patted on a hint of rouge across her cheeks and eyelids. A hair comb in the shape of a bee in flight completed her look. Fred had thought it a great joke when he bought it for her, but Margaret found she rather liked the oddity of it and wore her ridiculous adornment with pride.

"Margaret, how stunning you are!" exclaimed Papa when she came down the stairs.

"I was right about that colour," Mama said smugly. Mr. Bell put his hand to his heart and started to open his mouth to say something embarrassing, but Margaret cut across him.

"We must hurry or we'll be late!"

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John was also busy in his dressing room. He'd planned his outfit with great care, mindful of the fact that this would be the first time Miss Hale will have seen him in evening clothes. John did not own many articles of clothing. His years of poverty had left him with a detest of extravagance and wastefulness. It was only at his mother's instance that he owned a few sets of good evening outfits. For the first time, he was glad of her interference in this matter.

His dress coat was of a very fine wool with a silk lining. For his waistcoat, he chose a cream coloured one of watered silk; upon which his mother an embroidered an intricate design. He'd admired her skill of the task, the tiny delicate stitches. He was surprised she still continued to sew after she has been forced to take in piecework for years after their downfall. But she told him she truly enjoyed it, so long as she could do it at her own leisure.

John spent such an extraordinary amount of time refolding and retying his cravat until it hung just so, that Fanny banged impatiently on his bedroom door.

"John! Mother sent me to tell you to hurry up. Everyone will be arriving soon!"

"I'm coming, no need to shout," grumbled John. He opened to door to see a scowling Fanny. She looked like a pink bonbon in her absurdly wide and frilly dress. Fanny didn't even know the meaning of the word frugality. He and his mother had taken care to guard her from the worst of their destitution when she was younger, so much so that it seemed to have slipped her mind altogether. John was given a stark reminder of this whenever it came time to pay the milliners bills each month.

"Hurry up then," she snapped, taking his arm. "I don't know why you've been such a crosspatch lately but it's getting on my nerves."

"And I wouldn't want to do that," returned John sarcastically.

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John could not take his eyes off Miss Hale. Her gown, her smile, everything about her breathtaking. Her gown was unique. She'd not worn a pastel colour or short sleeves, but instead chose bold greens and pleats. She'd clearly taken great care with her appearance, just as John had with his. A tiny hope sprang to his mind that she had done so because of him, and he quickly squashed it.

"What a strange dress! She's obviously made it herself, and has rather poor taste. It's not even the fashion!" said Fanny rudely. She was talking to Miss Hamper, who frowned at her.

"I think it's quite lovely. I could never make something as impressive as that. I believe you're just jealous, Fanny," Miss Hamper scolded.

"I'm not jealous!" squealed Fanny, her cheeks turning pink at the lie. "I just think it awfully lowbrow to make one's own clothes, especially an evening dress."

John grit his teeth to hear Fanny's rude exhibition. He turned to his mother to see if she would scold Fanny, at least for her comment about making one's own clothes. But Mother wasn't paying close attention to Fanny; she too was frowning at Miss Hale.

"It is rather unsuitable. I wonder at Mrs. Hale for allowing it."

"Mother, Miss Hale isn't wearing anything that any lady here is not wearing. Please be civil, they are coming over," said John in a fierce whisper.

"Ah, Mrs. Thornton!" enthused Mr. Hale, taking her hand warmly. "Thank you for your invitation, it was most kind."

Mother bowed her head in acknowledgement. She expressed short greetings to the rest of the group, Miss Hale receiving the most insincere one of all. Miss Hale looked bemused by this but did not comment. The Hales and Mr. Bell moved on so that the Thornton's could greet the rest of their guests. Harkness and Watson arrived. Still bitter from their argument at the club, Harkness only gave John a terse nod. Thankfully, he was much warmer towards Mother.

"Look at Harkness, he's wearing a scarlet waistcoat! He looks like a Bow Street Runner!" hissed Fanny. John noticed irritably that his mother did rebuke Fanny for _that_ disparaging comment to a guest's attire.

After the arrival of the last guest, Mother maneuvered everyone into the drawing room to chat before dinner was served. John's eyes sought out Miss Hale whenever he looked about the room. It was easy to do as her lovely fair hair winked in the candlelight. John soon realized it was because her hairstyle contained a gold comb in the shape of a bee. He grinned at that. It suited her perfectly; elegant and surprising. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Slickson lumber towards him.

"Thornton, who's that fine young lady you are staring at?" he demanded.

"Miss Hale," said John shortly, his smile disappearing. He would not introduce Slickson to Miss Hale if he could help it. The man was slippery fellow and not someone he would subject Miss Hale to.

"Well really, Thornton is most ungallant host this evening, leaving the most glorious woman in the room alone with no one to talk to!" Mr. Bell's loud exaltations echoed in the room. Miss Hale blushed a brilliant scarlet at his statement. "Now then, who can we introduce you to? Come with me, my dear." Mr. Bell steered Miss Hale away from her parents and towards Watson. John and Miss Hale's eyes met briefly as she crossed the room and he gave her an encouraging smile. Miss Hale appeared to be too chagrined at Mr. Bell's rudeness to return it. John sympathized with her. He wondered if he could wrangle it that he might help her avoid sitting next to the man at dinner. He would have liked to be seated next to her himself, but as the host, it was his duty to sit at the end of the table opposite his mother. He wanted to ask Fanny for her assistance as she was good with things like this, but she'd be unwilling to help Miss Hale. John knew Fanny was resentful of how beautiful Miss Hale looked tonight, even though her gown was not as expensive or as adorned as Fanny's was.

When dinner was announced, it was Watson who gallantly offered his arm to Miss Hale to escort her into the dining room. She smiled warmly at him and laid her hand atop his own. John grit his teeth at the sight of her smile being directed at another man. The stab of jealousy he felt shocked him with its vehemence.

The first course was served, a rich consommé that was his mother's particular favorite.

"What an elegant table display, Mrs. Thornton. Those asters are enchanting!" said Miss Hamper indicating to the delicate purple flowers arranged artfully on the table.

"Those were my idea," Fanny enthused, preening under the compliment. John watched Miss Hale and Watson talking quietly together. They were seated too far down the table for John to hear what they were saying, but Miss Hale looked pleased by the attention. John could feel his mother glaring at him, but he did not meet her eye. He wanted to watch Watson, to see if he was saying anything untoward to Miss Hale. He knew he was being frightfully obvious, but he couldn't help it.

"I hear Arnold is moving lock, stock and barrel to America," said Mr. Bell to the table at large. Watson was instantly draw into the conversation, almost cutting off Miss Hale.

"America?" he said, shocked. "I'll be damned." For once, John was grateful for Mr. Bell's stirring. Watson often expressed his desire to do this very thing on bad days.

"That's what I'd like to do, pack up and leave. The damn strikers'd have no work at all then," he guffawed. Miss Hale frowned at that. John grinned in triumph. That's it, he thought, talk about how you treat your workers, then Miss Hale will see you're not worth her time.

"Well, it sounds as though they'll have no work soon enough," said Mr. Bell.

"There is work. They'll always be work. They just choose not to do it," Slickson said.

"Thornton? What do you think?" inquired Mr. Bell.

John smirked and did not take the bait. "Oh, I think you are up to your old tricks, Mr. Bell, playing with words at the expense of us simpler fellows."

"What do you think, Miss Hale?" Mother asked her, an unkind glint in her eye. "Surely you're not on the side of the workers?"

Miss Hale hesitated. "Well, yes and no. It is surely good to try to see both sides of a question. I believe they are right to protest their conditions. But I do not believe that a strike serves this purpose. It only harms both sides in the long term, the masters are unable to fill the orders and are then unable to pay the workers. The workers go without pay themselves while the strike lasts. But I do understand why they have chosen to do so. Many of them are destitute and only wish for a better life for themselves and their children," she said.

"We cannot afford to pay them more wages," claimed Watson, "They're demands are unreasonable for the amount of workers we employ."

"Then you must offer them something else," insisted Miss Hale.

"Like what?" scoffed Slickson.

"What they need most. Instead of increasing their wages, provide them with a noon meal. It would be more cost effective than increasing the pay of each worker. Give them a set of work clothes. Employ a schoolteacher for the children who work at the mill, alternating them between working and schooling in shifts. Surely these options are more cost effective and useful than increasing each worker's wage only a pittance!" exclaimed Miss Hale.

Everyone stared at Miss Hale, aghast. John could see that the other masters dismissed her ideas wholeheartedly, believing that she did not comprehend the situation. John, however, could only stare at her in wonder. It was clear to him that she had been thinking on this for a long time, perhaps even run through the figures in her mind. Her ingenuity impressed him, much as it had done when she presented her face masks to him. He simply added it to the list of the incredible things about her, wondering if it would ever be complete.

John saw that his mother was looking at Miss Hale with a conflicted expression. He thought he knew what was going through her mind. Mother had professed her dislike of Miss Hale, citing the reason to be her pride and lack of understanding of Milton. But Miss Hale's speech just proved Mother to be wrong in her estimation, and she detested being wrong. She looked as though she did not know how to handle this unexpected turn of events.

"There's not many who would be able to implement those kinds of schemes, dear," said Mr. Bell patronisingly. John almost growled to hear him speak so to Miss Hale.

"I see merit in it," John insisted. Miss Hale looked gratefully at him. "Purchasing food is cheaper if it is done in bulk. A set of clothes would be almost no hardship given the fact that we run _cotton_ mills." He almost rolled his eyes at the other masters. He doubted they would be receptive to any of Miss Hale's thoughts.

"Mrs. Arthur saw you taking a basket to the Princeton district the other afternoon," stated Fanny, evidently determined to cause trouble for Miss Hale in retaliation for making her feel inadequate earlier. Miss Hale looked annoyed by Fanny's gossiping.

"Yes, I have a good friend in Princeton. Her name is Bessy Higgins. I was taking her–."

"Higgins?" exclaimed Watson. All the masters turned to look at Miss Hale with suspicious expressions. No doubt they were wondering if she was a spy in the other direction, particularly in light of her passionate proposals. John knew Miss Hale too well to think that, but he too was surprised to learn that she was acquainted with Higgins. He wondered how they had met.

"Isn't he one of your union leaders, Hamper?" Watson asked.

"Aye. He's a terrific firebrand. A dangerous man," confirmed Hamper, a note of respect in his voice. John knew that Hamper valued the man for his passion, even though he did not agree with his principles.

"I'm surprised, Miss Hale, that you keep such company," said Mother scornfully. Miss Hale lifted her chin in defiance.

"Bessy is my friend," she insisted. "Nicholas is a little–."

"Nicholas? She's on first name terms!" exclaimed Hamper. Noises of disbelief ran around the room. Fanny looked triumphant at Miss Hale's discomfort.

"Mr. Higgins," Miss Hale corrected herself, "has been made a little wild by circumstances. But he speaks from his heart. His cause is worthy, even if his motives are questionable." She looked aggravated by the interrogation she was receiving. John open his mouth in an effort to rescue her, but Hamper cut across him.

"Well, if he's so determined, I'm surprised he'll accept your charity," he groused.

Miss Hale's eyes flashed in anger. "It is not charity, Mr. Hamper. I bring them medicine for his daughter, who is dying from a lung condition she developed from working in _your_ mill."

Utensils clattered back down to the table. A shocked silence ensued. Everyone looked at Miss Hale with scandalized expressions. Even Mr. Bell, whose lack of manners was infamous, looked at her with some disquiet.

"Forgive me. That came out harsher than I wished. I only meant to express that I do not think it right for you to dismiss the workers concerns, for they are serious," Miss Hale stated quietly.

"Mrs. Foster, are you planning to visit the coast again next year?" asked Mother, firmly changing the subject. Mrs. Forster answered after a moment's hesitation and the new topic continued. Miss Hale sat in silence, her face pale. John wished he could take her hand in comfort. Her passionate nature impressed him, but he felt that other guests would not be pleased to receive a telling off such as she had just expressed. Miss Hale realized the error of her outburst and consequently did not say anything more for the rest of the meal. Fanny looked as though she wanted to stir up more trouble, but a sharp tap from John's foot under the table made her change tactics. She instead spent the entire third course detailing how wonderful the new dress designs in London were, how pleasing the pale colours looked. Miss Hale, however, was too lost in her own thoughts to respond to the slight.

At the conclusion of the final course, the women withdrew to the drawing room and the men stayed in the dining room for drinks. In an uncharacteristic show of tact, Mr. Bell drew Mr. Hale into a conversation in an attempt to spare him from the pointed words of the offended masters. Sure enough, Hamper took a huge swallow of brandy and said, "I can't believe what a rude exhibition that Hale woman put up."

"She speaks her mind. I cannot fault her for that," John snapped. "And you will say no more about it. You'll not upset her or her father in my presence." Hamper pulled a face at that, but did as John insisted.

John ignored the conversation around him. Instead, he focused his thoughts on everything more he had learnt of Miss Hale this evening. She was creative and talented in her pursuits. Her cleverness was captivating. She seemed to spend a great deal of time thinking about the same things John did, although from a different perspective. His ideas for the mill were all about industry and profit. Hers were based on compassion and the well-being of his workers. Together, maybe they could bring balance to the mill.

After the suitable amount of time had passed, John and the other men left the dining room and went into the drawing room to meet up with the women. John went immediately to Miss Hale's side. She was standing apart from the group, looking out the window down to the empty mill yard below. John could she her reflection in the dark glass. She still looked uncomfortable. No doubt she had been on the receiving end of one of his mother's pointed digs about her character.

"Miss Hale. Are you alright?" he inquired in a low voice.

"If I am not, I have only myself to blame," she replied, her voice despondent. "I am sorry that I offended your guests."

"Don't worry about that. If there's even the remotest possibility of us finding offence, you can be sure we will. We're very good at that in Milton," he jested, hoping to lighten the mood. Miss Hale was too uncomfortable to smile.

"I should have not let my feelings run away with me. Especially not as a guest in your house. I apologize," she asserted.

"You do not need to apologize. I respect that you care so deeply," John took a deep breath and plunged on. "I am… _glad_ that you care so deeply about… the issue." He groaned inwardly at his cowardly deflection.

She flashed a brief smile in response, but did not answer. John wandered what he should do now. She did not seem to understand the significance of his statement, or else was attempting to convey that she was uninterested in continuing with this line of thought. Should he ask to call on her? Should he take her hand? The latter idea seemed too presumptuous. Perhaps he might use her Christian name. That seemed less overconfident. He ought to tell her how much he enjoyed her company, how often he thought of her when they weren't together. He wanted to tell her how his heart beat a wild rhythm in his chest any time she so much as looked at him. That she was beautiful, brilliant and clever. That the dark feelings within him disappeared in her presence, to such an extent that he could barely even recall what the loneliness felt like. How he would happily spend the rest of his life making her laugh, think, explore.

John mentally shook himself. Best keep it light. John gathered his courage.

"Mar–,"

"Margaret," interjected Mr. Hale. "I think it would be best if we took our leave. Thank you, John, for the evening." John almost bit out a growl. He couldn't believe he'd been so close, only to be thwart at the last possible moment. John wanted to protest the Hales departure, but refrained after seeing the faint looks of discomfort on their faces.

"Of course," replied. "You are welcome any time you wish." He directed the last of this towards Miss Hale. She smiled and inclined her head in thanks. He reached for her hand. He caught her gaze with his and held it. John briefly caressed his thumb against the back of her hand before letting go.

The Hales bid a quick goodbye to the rest of the party and left without fanfare. John went to the balcony to watch the carriage drive away. He had not been able to expressed his feelings the way he wanted, but he hoped that his touch had been enough to alert her to his wishes. He was unsure. It had been a tumultuous evening for her. It was unlikely she had been paying any particular attention to their brief conversation.

Miss Hale climbed slowly into the carriage. A slight pattering of rain began to descend on the courtyard. John wanted to run, follow, beg her to tell him what she was thinking.

"Look back... look back at me."

John's whispered pleas went unanswered; Miss Hale did not look back.

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*Authors Note: So, the 'look back at me' was not as poignant as the one in the film, but I couldn't resist putting it in.


	17. Chapter 15

*A/N. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I completely teared up reading the ones that said they thought it was as good as the original. Thank you so much! I can't believe how much people have been enjoying it! Because of the overwhelming positivity I've been receiving, I will continue to post this story.

*A/N. I hope my Houston reviewer is doing ok during the storm! My thoughts are with you.

*A/N. This story will continue past the end of the movie and beyond. I won't give away the details but it will definitely be going past the obligatory marriage ceremony.

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Chapter 15

"This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet"

Margaret tore at the buttons on the back of her gown, too impatient to wait for Caoimhe's assistance. She succeeded in loosening the top buttons enough to pull the dress down. It sunk into a puddle around her feet. She impatiently picked at the ribbons holding her crinoline in place until it too fell from her body. She pulled off her slippers and threw them forcefully against the wall. Thankfully, they were too delicate to make any impact.

She was fuming. Angry at herself for letting her mouth run away with her, angry at the masters for being so rude, angry at Mr. Bell for his stupid comments setting her on edge in the first place. Mrs. Thornton's lecture to her on politeness – right in front of Mama! – had made Margaret so furious she wanted to leap from the balcony and run home so that she might never have to speak to the odious woman again.

Margaret tore off her camisole then pulled at the laces on her corset, her fingers clumsy with rage. She yanked the strings through their holes, pulled the garment forcefully from her body and threw it to the floor with a satisfying thump. Now that she could breath better, she took several huge gulps of air in an effort to calm herself.

She had embarrassed herself once again. She had managed to offended every person in the room. Margaret groaned in remembrance. It had come out all wrong. She had meant to explain her ideas carefully, making sure to present facts and evidence; not shout them rudely across a dining table.

She had also ruined her chance to explain. They would dismiss her now, as an overwrought woman who knew nothing of mill work. She'd never disparaged against her own gender before. But for the first time, she properly felt the limitations of being a woman in a man's world. Margaret was sure that the masters had been offended more by the ideas being presented by a woman, than because they were presented by a novice.

Only Mr. Thornton seemed to consider her ideas. She was grateful to him for attempting to deflect some of the ire away from her. She had been worried that she had offended her father's friend again, all because she could never stop herself from saying every single thought that was in her head. Luckily, he did not seem to be deeply affronted. He'd even come over to check if she was alright, which was kind of him. She'd barely paid attention to her conversation with him, however. She just wanted to leave. She was grateful to Papa for suggesting they leave early. Margaret did not think she could have kept her emotions in check for a moment longer.

Margaret slumped down onto her bed with a huff. Now how was she going to get the masters to implement improvements in the mills? She thought with the threat of strike looming over their heads, they would have been receptive of new ideas that did not mean increasing the workers' wages. Their angry dismissal proved that was not the case. They weren't looking for alternatives, they only cared about profits. Some even seemed to give the impression that they wanted to do the least work possible for the greatest amount of gain. That angered her too. Did they not realise that their workers were human beings? That they had families, and passions and hopes? Just because their desires were not the same as the masters, it did not make them any less worthy.

"Miss?" Caoimhe's tentative voice sounded from Margaret's bedroom door. "Did they not like yer dress?"

Margaret gave a half sob, half laugh at that. "I don't think so. But that's not why I'm upset. I made rather a spectacle of myself at dinner. I shouted at the masters about their treatment of the workers. They won't want to implement my ideas now."

"Ack, that's t' bad. You'll jest have to prove it to 'em," retorted Caoimhe, bending down to pick up Margaret's scattered clothing. Margaret smiled despite herself. Caoimhe was right. It was as simple – and as complex – as that.

"That Mrs. Thornton! I've never met such a rude woman in my life!" blustered Mama, also coming into the room to check on Margaret. "How dare she tell my own daughter how to conduct herself in public? If you ask me, the incident would never have happened if she had been more selective in her guest list. Such ruffians at a dinner party! I've never seen the like before."

"Mama, it was my own fault. I should have tried to control myself better," sighed Margaret.

Mama was not listening. "What a dour woman! And her daughter must be the silliest and most quarrelsome girl I've ever encountered. They way she picked at you at dinner. Her jarring laugh just grated on my nerves. Mr. Thornton is nothing like his family. He's most certainly a changeling."

Margaret snorted. Mr. Thornton _was_ as severe as his mother, but was more inclined to lessen his demeanour in the company of those he liked, like her father. Mrs. Thornton, more confident in herself and her position, never felt the need to do so. It seemed to Margaret that Mr. Thornton was thankful for his wealth and his success; but his mother saw it as something that was owed to them, and conducted herself accordingly.

Having calmed herself somewhat, Margaret reflected on Caoimhe's words. Margaret thought that Mr. Thornton would be the best person to approach about improving the labourers' conditions. He had already proved that he was receptive to change. She would make a list of her plans; their expenses and pros and cons. Then when she showed it to him, he'd be able to definitively tell her what schemes would work and what still needed improvement.

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In the last week of September, Margaret received a letter that cheered her up enormously after the dinner party debacle.

'My darling cousin Margaret; I have the most splendid news to tell you. The Captain and I are expecting a baby in February. A baby, Margaret, can you believe it? I do hope it is a girl, so that I may dress her up in bows and lace, and buy her little dresses. I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you, only I wanted to be completely sure. You need not worry, the Captain is not expecting me to fill his nursery with hordes of boys; he says as long as I am happy, it matters not to him. Isn't he utterly affable? You must come to London for a visit as soon as the baby is born. And I want your opinions on colours for the nursery. I have already picked out a sheaf of colours and you must help me decide before I go quite mad. I've written to Mama and she is just thrilled. She will stay with the Captain and I in January, so that she can prepare me for my lying in.'

Margaret read Edith's letter with a joyful squeal. Mama looked up from her sewing at the noise and Margaret passed her the letter.

"Oh, how lovely!" Mama enthused. "Edith will make a charming mother. Although I fear she will over-indulge her children."

"There's nothing wrong with that, Mama. She's so sweet and happy, her children are sure to be as well. Those types of people are rarely spoilt by indulgence," replied Margaret. She began to write her reply to Edith immediately. She told her of her excitement, and offered her advice for how to reduce nausea; ginger preserves and peppermint tea. She also suggested a sea green for the nursery; a calming colour that was sure to soothe both mother and baby.

Her mind still reeling with the news, Margaret spent her morning with the infants in the foundling home. She had no real experience with babies and had been too wary about her inexperience to frequent this room much in the past. Two wet nurses worked in the home, given room and board in lieu of wages; and a safe space to raise their own children.

Margaret helped feed the babies old enough to be given more solid foods; the task amusingly complicated. The children were given a watery gruel, administered by a teaspoon sterilised with heat. Their tiny mouths not used to the new actions, they often made chewing motions while the food dribbled uselessly down their chins. It took Margaret endless attempts to poke the same spoonful of food into the child until they finally consumed it, only to begin the process over again with the next mouthful.

Changing the children turned out to be just as complicated; the nurses laughed helplessly at Margaret's ineptitude – the nappy on the first child falling off continuously, until she was shown the correct way to fold and pin it.

"No children of ya own, eh?" snickered one of the women.

"No, not yet. I didn't realise this kind of thing would be so difficult! I thought it would just be instinctual," giggled Margaret, swaying the child back and forth to soothe her.

"Some of it is, like the holding," – Margaret belatedly realising that her arms did indeed bend perfectly to accommodate the small body – "but other stuff is 'ard, you 'ave to learn it, same as anythin'."

Margaret enjoyed herself, despite her mistakes. There was something comforting about caring for the children. She thought she would be afraid of making a mistake, but the fact that the tiny person depended on her entirely calmed her nervousness; it made her second-guess herself less. Her first choice had to be the right one, making her more likely to choose correctly.

She and Fred had been raised by primarily by a nursemaid, and she knew Edith would do the same for her children. But as she sang softly to the sleeping child in her arms, she knew that she would not be able to let herself relinquish her children to the care of another. That she would need help was certain, but she decided that she would be the primary caregiver, unable to even contemplate another scenario.

On her way home, she met Mr. Bell walking with two friends, an elder gentleman and his – presumably – daughter. Mr. Bell enthusiastically flagged Margaret down. Still somewhat annoyed about Mr. Bell's manner from the dinner party, she reluctantly crossed the street to speak with him and be introduced to his companion. The young woman looked vaguely familiar.

"Now look at this! What luck! Two of the prettiest girls in Milton," exclaimed Mr. Bell, embarrassing Margaret once again; and the other young lady, if her red face was any indication. "You know the Latimers, Margaret? My banker and therefore a very important man."

Mr. Latimer touched his hat briefly, smiling at her.

"My wife speaks highly of you, Miss Hale, and your enthusiasm for her Society. This is my daughter Ann, recently arrived home from Switzerland, and very much finished… or as finished as they could make her." Mr. Latimer twittered at his own joke, Ann going red in the face again.

Margaret smiled at her in sympathy. That was why she looked familiar; she looked very much like her mother, although she did not carry herself in the same way. She was slightly hunched in on herself and fiddled nervously with the end of her parasol. She was clearly very shy.

"I have been scouring Milton for a match for my Ann," continued Mr. Latimer, oblivious to his daughter's discomfort. "She's well set up and should make someone a fine bride."

"Perhaps you ought to send her to London," suggested Mr. Bell. "That's the place to get husbands, isn't it, Margaret?"

"I – I wouldn't know," said Margaret, affronted.

"Finishing school, the Season, a wedding… daughters certainly are an expensive lot," laughed Mr. Latimer, much to Margaret and Ann's annoyance. Margaret felt deeply sorry for Ann. Her father was clearly keen to get her off his hands; Margaret was forever thankful that her father put no such pressure on her. The Latimers took their leave; Margaret gave Ann an encouraging smile.

"Now, where're you off to, my dear?" asked Mr. Bell, taking her arm.

"Nowhere," said Margaret quickly, not wanting to be cajoled into walking anywhere with Mr. Bell. He was undeterred however.

"That's all right, you can have your little secrets. All young women must have their secrets, isn't that one of the joys of life?" he laughed, patting her hand patronizingly.

Margaret almost rolled her eyes. She could see she was going to have to be blunt if she wanted Mr. Bell to get the hint.

"I am sorry, my dear?" Mr. Bell's jovial expression faded as he finally sensed her mood.

"Mr. Bell… I am grateful for the friendship you give my father. And I am glad you've been so helpful to him and my family, but–"

"–But you wished I would mind my own business and stop being so damned facetious," sighed Mr. Bell, getting the point at last. "You are absolutely right, my dear, and it will stop immediately. But you know, I do take an interest. I would like to think, if you were in need of help I would be the first you'd call upon."

"You've my word, Mr. Bell. You'll be the first," she replied placating. No doubt she wouldn't need to call on him; he'd stick his nose in before she even had a chance to protest.

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John had spent the last week sequestered in the courts, hearing the September quarter sessions. It was a long arduous process. Most of the offences were small things; drunkenness, vagrancy and theft. Most were able to be cycled through quickly, the offender obvious and the sentencing apparent. Most were give a choice of fine or hard labour. As most of the offenders could not afford the fines, the imposed labour was almost always chosen. The offenders were taken away to work for three weeks to six months in the coalfields or quarries in the North. A few more serious crimes were punished by imprisonment, including the real offender of the case Inspector Mason had approached John with a few weeks ago.

Six of the cases presented were men who had wilfully abandoned their families. They had been sentenced to either a prison term or a few months' hard labour, which seemed humorously counterproductive in John's mind. Surely it would be a more appropriate to reprimand the offenders by sending them back to their wives and children?

The most grievous offence that was presented was that of arson; a man had purposely set his employer's house alight, after he had been fired for tardiness. John and the other magistrates had debated at length about his sentence. The man's children were grown and were no longer dependant on him for support, and would therefore not be greatly impacted by an extended sentence. They finally decided on a sentence of ten years' imprisonment. The offender showed a curious lack of emotion at that proclamation.

As a result of his time being consumed by the quarter sessions, John had not been able to spend any time in Miss Hale's company. He still went to his evening lessons with Mr. Hale but had been forced to decline the invitations to tea afterwards, needing to use the time to catch up on his mill duties. But tonight, the last day of the sessions, meant that he would finally be able to speak with her about her schemes for the mill.

After the last case on the docket had been decided, John raced home to change then hurried to Crampton. Despite his impatience with wanting to see Miss Hale, John enjoyed his lesson with Mr. Hale. The lesson was on Britain's political history and the politics of today. John had only a basic understanding of modern politics and almost none at all about the history of it. The lesson, therefore, was less of their usual debate and more of a traditional lecture. John was impressed by Mr. Hale's knowledge on the subject; he barely glanced at the book on the desk, most of it he just knew.

John had a bad few minutes after their lesson, as it looked as though Miss Hale would not be joining them. After a while, however, Miss Hale did come into the drawing room and John breathed a sigh of relief, eager to talk more with her about the ideas she had shared at the dinner party.

"Miss Hale… I wondered, would you explain more of your ideas about the mill? It sounded as though you had thought on them often," John asked her, staring at her attentively.

"You want to know what I think?" asked Miss Hale incredulously. Clearly she had been rattled by the other night. John spoke quickly, lest she think that he too disapproved of her.

"Of course. I am always interested in ways to improve my mill."

"I see. Well, I noticed on the tour you gave me, that there was a large stone building around the back near the stables. It looked unused as far as I could see," she paused and looked to him for confirmation.

"Aye, it was the old baling shed, in use before I built the present one."

"It got me thinking. The workers are asking for higher wages, correct? The masters maintain that this cannot be given, and perhaps that is true. I will be the first to admit I know nothing about the cost of production or a mill's profit margins. But I am aware about much the weavers are paid. Those are the lowest paid of the adult workers, besides the children, are they not?" This time, Miss Hale barely waited for John's nod, she was so caught up in her explanation. He grinned at that.

"I was told that they are paid between five and ten, and five and twenty a week. That's between fourteen and sixteen pounds per annum, per weaver. The children receive twelve pounds per annum, the spinners sixteen. If the master raises each worker's pay by three shillings a week for each of the 200 workers, that equates to around thirty pounds extra in wages a year. A large sum for the master for so little gain for each individual worker. I calculated some figures and I have worked out that if the masters took this sum of thirty pounds, they could use it to instead purchase food in bulk and give it to the workers free of charge at the noon meal. Because that is what the workers would spend their money on anyway, they have told me so themselves. So why not cut out the need for them to scrape for offcuts all together?" Miss Hale spoke quickly in her excitement, and it took John a moment to fully comprehend what she had outlined.

"That would indeed be much more useful to them. Who will prepare the food?" he asked, certain that she would have already thought of that. She did not disappoint.

"You could rotate the female workers in shifts. Each day, a different woman cooks the meal for everyone else. That way, you could simply pay them for their labor and would not have to add an additional cost of employing a cook." Miss Hale drew a piece of paper towards herself eagerly. John watched in admiration as she began to sketch out her plan for a rota. "You could also rotate the children in shifts as well. Half could attend lessons in the morning, then swap in the afternoon with the next group of children. The schoolteacher could be sourced from the one of the older girls at the founding home – they are well versed in writing and arithmetic."

"Aye, that is a good–"

"Most of your employees are women. They need someone to look after their youngest children while they work. A woman could also be employed to mind the children, at the mill, at no extra charge to the workers. You could also implement a library service, medical advice, even a cart to take them to and from–" Miss Hale cut herself off suddenly. Her eyes were bright with excitement, that quickly dimmed. She lifted her pen from the paper which she had been scribbling her ideas on.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to preach at you," she stuttered.

"No, it's alright," John said quickly. "I want to know what you think. And I am pleased that you take such interest in my mil– in Milton," he amended, losing his nerve once again. He cursed himself. Why was this so hard? He had no problem thinking the words inside his head. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"These concepts are… magnificent. And I think they all could work, every one."

Miss Hale bestowed a breathtaking smile on him. "Thank you. I am so happy you think so."

"Indeed, Margaret. Most ingenious!" John almost jumped in surprise at the sound of Mr. Hale's voice. He'd been so drawn into her speech that he'd forgotten they weren't alone.

John and Miss Hale spend the remainder of his visit going over the figures and the finer points of her schemes. He explained that he had no area for a schoolroom at present, and so additional funds would need to be taken into account for it. She looked downcast by that, until he explained that he was in support of the idea, but it would take him a few months before he had gathered the funds for its construction; and a few more before it could be finished.

"You ought to take a survey of the workers, asking how many would like to use the service. That would give you an idea about how large the facilities would need to be," said Miss Hale.

John nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "Aye, I can do that over the next few weeks. There are thirty children who work for me currently, so at least large enough for that."

The midday meal could be implemented almost immediately, as the baling shed only needed to be cleaned, and a stove and tables purchased. Before he began however, he'd also ask his workers if they were willing to spend a day cooking the meal for everyone. He was sure all would agree; the work easier than what they did now, for the same wage.

Margaret informed him that the masks were almost finished, more than three quarters of them completed by the charity children. John hoped that he would be able to get the food and masks distributed soon, before the strike talk became even more heated. His workers would be less likely to walk out, if they're conditions improved.

John also wholeheartedly enjoyed working with Miss Hale. He loved watching her eyes light up as she thought of something, the way she spoke almost too quickly when she was excited. He would love to spend the rest of his life in this way, talking and debating endlessly with her.

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The gentle hum of conversation rose and fell. Margaret was standing nervously at the front of the Lyceum Hall with Mrs. Latimer and Ann.

"Quite the turn out," Mrs. Latimer nodded with a satisfied air. "We've already exceeded our goal of funds with the ticket sales!"

Margaret could only nod numbly. When she had presented her concert idea, she had not expected a crowd of this number to attend. But due to the diligence of the Ladies' Aid and the fact that entertainment was few and far between, the hall was packed with people. Four ladies had been chosen to sing – Margaret among them – one lady was going to play a piece of the piano and two more were to perform a small portion of Bach's _Concerto for Two Violins_.

Margaret was scheduled to perform last. She did not know what to think of that. People would either be too bored by then to pay close attention, or her performance would stick in their minds as the finale of the evening.

Margaret scrubbed her damp palms against her gown. The only thing that would be more embarrassing than singing in front of all these people would be to faint in front of them. Margaret took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

Mrs. Latimer and her daughter went first. They were suitably proficient and performed well together. Mrs. Latimer was so caught up in the excitement that she began to sing along with her daughter, in addition to her piano playing. Ann faltered slightly at that, but not too noticeably. No doubt the quiet girl was used to being bowled over by her larger-than-life mother.

Mrs. Clarke played a jaunty piece on the piano, to the amusement of everyone. Miss Taylor sang a little song in French. Her delivery was sweet and clear but Margaret though the choice was a mistake; not many here would understand or appreciate it. The violin players were slightly out of sync with each other. The two women had quarrelled vigorously about the piece, right up until the moment they headed to the front of the room.

Soon, too soon, it was Margaret's turn. She swallowed. She closed her eyes and sent a brief prayer that she would not lose her voice or fall on her face. She stood up from her chair and strode carefully to the front of the room. She could see her mother and father sitting a few rows back. They smiled encouragingly at her. Mrs. Thornton and her son and daughter were sitting in the row behind them. Margaret was surprised to see Mr. Thornton here. He had never professed a liking for music before.

Margaret nodded to Miss White, who began the first notes of the song. They had practiced together often and had achieved a good rhythm. Miss White had praised Margaret's singing voice in a way that Edith never had before. She hoped Miss White was not exaggerating or attempting to fill Margaret with false confidence.

Margaret took a deep breath and began to sing. After the first few bars, she forgot about her nerves and lost herself in the mournful lyrics.

 _Why should the beautiful ever weep?_

 _Why should the beautiful die?_

 _Lending a charm to every ray_

 _That falls on her cheeks of light._

Margaret thought of Bessy. Of all the other poor nameless people she had seen die in the hospital. Any incident of conflict or unkindness she had seen since she came to Milton floated through her mind. Margaret closed her eyes. She felt the crescendo of the music rise up over her skin.

 _May the red rose live alway,_

 _To smile upon earth and sky!_

 _Why should the innocent hide their heads?_

 _Why should the innocent fear?_

The hope of the lyrics rose with her voice and the music. She spread her arms wide, unbidden, captivated by the feelings that welled up inside her. Despite all the darkness and smoke, there was still hope. There was still light at the end of tunnel. There were still little touches of kindness. She saw Caoimhe's laughing face, Sarah's kind smile. The proud faces of her parents, and of Edith and Fred. Even Mr. Thornton's smile flash briefly across her mind. Margaret lowered her voice, back to the mournfulness of the remaining lyrics. However, the note of hope was still there.

 _Why should the beautiful ever weep?_

 _Why should the beautiful die?_

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John watched Miss Hale, awestruck. He had never heard the song sung in this way before. She threw herself into it wholeheartedly, just as she did with everything else. When her voice and the music swept into the upsurge, John actually felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He could not take her eyes off her. She threw her arms wide and poured herself into the music, heart and soul. At the end of the song, everyone paused, awestruck for a moment, before rising and giving her a thunderous applause. Due to his looming height, John could just see over the heads of those in front of him. Miss Hale looked startled by the ovation, but curtsied prettily with her partner.

The head of the Ladies' Aid, Mrs. Latimer, walked to the front of the room, grinning widely. She thanked the crowd for their generous donations. She bid everyone to applauded once more for the performers.

"And great thanks of course, to Miss Margaret Hale for suggesting the event." John smirked. Of course she did.

People began to get up and move towards the doors. Many went to the performers to congratulate them. Miss Hale in particular looked bemused by all the compliments she was receiving.

"Come, John. We should be leaving," said Mother crisply.

"In a moment. I wish to speak to Miss Hale." Mother looked as though she wanted to protest that, but loathed to get into a row in front of everyone. John left Mother and Fanny and pressed his way though the slight crush of people to get to Miss Hale. Her parents were standing next to her, beaming proudly.

"Congratulations on your success Miss Hale. I should have guess you were behind it," he told her. She smiled widely.

"Thank you. I'm glad it worked out. Everyone seems very… appreciative of my performance."

"Indeed, Miss Hale. You sing beautifully."

"As I have been telling you for years, Margaret," said Mrs. Hale. "You should have never listened to a word Edith said. She is the one with the stone ear, not you." Margaret laughed lightly at that.

"I'm sure that's not entirely true, Mama," she turned to John. "Thank you for your support. It is much appreciated. I'm sure the children appreciate it as well." She quirked a smile.

"Of course. You shall always have my support," he told her quietly. Now was not the time for passionate declarations, but nor could her resist telling her something affectionate.

That night, John lay in bed, his hands folded pensively behind his head. He knew the time had come to think seriously about Miss Hale. Lying here in the dark, not a whisper of sound to distract him and still reeling from the emotions of earlier, John was able to find the words for the feelings that had been welling up inside him from almost the moment they met.

He realised he loved her; completely, wholeheartedly. She was everything he's been searching for. She was thoughtful and energetic. Beautiful. Brilliant. Passionate.

It was not a sudden wave of realisation. It was more of an acknowledgement of a fact that had been with him his entire life.

He was a man. He had dark hair.

He loved Margaret Hale.

It was at the same time utterly foreign and completely familiar. He felt he had been waiting in agony his whole life for her; and yet felt as though no time had passed at all.

He knew it was madness to pin all his hopes and happiness upon one single person, but he couldn't help it. Even just a few kind words and a smile from her was a benediction. He never truly realized how angry and alone he had been until she came and brought sun into his life. He felt as though he'd spent the last twelve years blind. He had grown accustomed to it, learnt to get along in darkness, but knew all the while that he had been missing something. And now, after being brought out into the sun, he began to realize all the things he wanted, and never had reason to think of before.

He wanted Margaret as a wife, a lover. A companion, the mother of his children. Everything, everything. All of her, all at once. He wanted to drown in this happiness. It as though he was sinking into a vat of honey, all the while expecting to reach the bottom, only to discover that it was endless.

He must tell her how he felt. Soon. Now that he had acknowledged it, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and never let go. Mindful of the last few times he had tried to speak to her about his affection for her; how he stammered over the words, he began to practice his words out loud.

He soon found, to his dismay, that his mouth would not cooperate with his brain. He wanted desperately to tell her how he felt, but the words kept coming out jarring or inelegantly. It was maddening. He could think the words perfectly in his head.

 _I love you, Margaret_.

But he could not say them properly. He supposed it was because he had never had those words directed to him before. He knew his mother loved him, of course, but she had never said so with words. Not even to Fanny. His father likewise, had never said the words to him out right.

He knew he must tell her concisely, so that there might be no misunderstandings on her part. But his nerves overtook him, just as they had on every other occasion. Perhaps it would be better if he took things slowly still, spent a bit more time courting her, before he voiced his feelings. That way, Margaret would be more sure of what he was trying to express if his words failed him.

Appeased by his plan, John drifted off into a happy slumber, his dreams full of Margaret's gentle smile.

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October seemed to be the month for almsgiving. Margaret's dust masks were completed and handed out to all the workers at Marlborough Mill; the Ladies' Aid coats were also distributed among the children.

Mr. Thornton asked all the workers to stay back for a few moments after the six o'clock whistle sounded, so that Margaret could explain her masks; what they prevented and how they should be cared for. She told them that adherence was not considered compulsory by their employer, but she also stressed the health benefits of wearing the mask during their working hours. Many of them had already been informed by the initial recipients and so, thankfully, no great speech was needed. The workers formed a line and each received a mask as they departed through the gates.

After all the workers had left, Margaret couldn't help grinning widely. She did not know how many would accept her advice, but she had given them an option. She might have saved their lives; especially the children.

"Well done, Miss Hale. You should be very pleased with your accomplishment. I am also thankful for your support of my employees," said Mr. Thornton, smiling at her.

Margaret sighed happily. "I am so glad I could be useful. Thank _you_ , Mr. Thornton. It couldn't have been done without you either."

The look Mr. Thornton gave her was odd. On anyone else she might have called it nervous, but she couldn't imagine Mr. Thornton being timid about anything.

"Aye, your welcome. I was glad to do it. I… that is, will you be joining your father and I for tea again tomorrow evening?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Thornton, I won't be able to. There was an accident at the coalfield yesterday and many of the injured have been brought to the hospital for treatment. I am going to be working in the evenings, as well as the mornings, as there are too many patients for the nursing sisters to cope with on their own," explained Margaret.

He looked curiously saddened by her statement, but whether it was because of her absence or the situation, she couldn't tell. He wished her good day easily enough, but also seemed reluctant to leave her side.

Margaret pondered Mr. Thornton as she walked to the hospital. His behaviour of late had puzzled her slightly, and she could not fathom the reason behind it. He was as aloof as ever, but also singled her out often for conversation whenever he visited. Margaret enjoyed talking with him. He had a calming way of regarding her, that never made her feel like a chatterbox. Margaret knew full well that she could sometimes be considered rude in her occasional inability to hold a reciprocal conversation. But Mr. Thornton, like many quiet people, seemed to enjoy chatter, so long as he was not unduly pressed to return the favour.

Almost every bed in both wards were filled. Many of the men had suffered only minor injuries, broken bones and such. A few had severe burns. Only a few had severe enough injuries to require surgery. One such patient had been in surgery for quite a few hours, before Mr. Jenkins and the other surgeon volunteers had been able to repair the damage; his foot having been almost crushed in the accident. The man in question was heavily sedated with chloroform. Mr. Jenkins asked Margaret and Sarah to clean his body of coal dust and blood, as there had not been time to clean him in entirety before his operation. They also had to stitch his many superfluous cuts; the man had not been wearing a shirt at the time of the accident and was badly cut as a result.

A cloth was placed over his lap while they sponged him down and applied the sutures, but it had to be removed when they cleaned the intimate parts of him. Sarah was unfazed by the task, but Margaret couldn't hide her blush at the sight. She'd never seen a naked man before.

They applied a healing paste to his cuts before covering them in bandages. They also soaked cloths in iced water to press to his bruised skin, so that they might heal faster. He came to just as they were finishing, moaning in pain. Sarah quickly fetched the laudanum and administered a few teaspoons to help subdue his discomfort.

Margaret spent the rest of the afternoon and evening cleaning and bandaging many of the other patients. When she finally left, she looked a fright. Her skin was streaked with soot; her hair caked with grime and stuck to her scalp with sweat. She asked Caoimhe to draw her a bath and spent an hour in the warm perfumed water, soaking her sore muscles.

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*Author's Note: I imagined Margaret's singing voice to be like Elaine Paige or Lea Michele; slightly too high pitched to be instantly pleasing, but once you listen to it a few times, it gives you goose-bumps. I imagined Margaret singing the song to the tune of 'I Dreamed a Dream' from Les Miserables.

*Author's Note 2: John's inner musings over his love for Margaret was fun to write. His character is still developing, while Margaret is very sure of who she is. It's an interesting juxtaposition, given that he is the older one and has more practical knowledge about the world, while Margaret's expertise is largely theoretical.


	18. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes"

John stood at the windows at Godfrey's, looking down at the Lyceum. The street was busy with carriages, people and tradesman. It was almost nightfall. The shop owners were completing the last of their transactions. Workers rushed home to their families. A large group of laborers were walking into the Lyceum. John frowned at their numbers.

"There's Boucher. And Cooper. Higgins was likely the first to arrive," reported Henderson. He was using a tankard of ale to gesture to his own laborers as they made their way into the building for a strike meeting.

"Aye, that's Keith, and Grove; and that bunch there. They're some of mine," stated Watson, also peering through the windows. John turned away and started to gather up his things to leave.

"Aren't you interested, Thornton?" Hamper scolded him. "All mills together if you please. We need to show 'em. We know what they're up to an' who they are."

"Let them meet, if that's how they want to spend their leisure time," retorted John. He had no real reason to believe the workers were seriously preparing for a strike. He'd taken precautions but as of yet, he'd made no concrete plans. He'd only seen a few of his own works through the windows. If there had been more, he would have been more inclined to do something. It was a testament to how carelessly the other masters were of their workers that some many of their own had showed for this gathering.

"We're all trying to work together, Thornton," Hamper told him severely. John almost growled at the comment, remembering a conversation between some of his workers he'd heard a few days ago. He spun toward Hamper, his face thunderous.

"Are we?" he asked sarcastically, baiting the the man.

Hamper bristled. "What does that mean?"

John moved to get in Hamper's face. John's towering height of the squat man made the threat seem even more impressive. "I overheard some of my men talking. It seems you're planning to give in to them. We agreed we'd all be in line so that the men would know we meant business and know that we kept our word!"

"Well… I…," stammered Hamper, backing up several paces. John did not wait for whatever pathetic excuse Hamper would use to try and cover his deception.

He retuned home in high dudgeon, only to have his temper further stoked by his mother. He had told her about Margaret's scheme – Mother thought the masks an effective measure, but resented that Margaret was the instigator. She would not listen to John's explanation that he thought it showed that Margaret was a worthy person, capable of great compassion of Milton and John's mill. Her refusal to accept what was right in front of her irritated John to no end. He had been planning to reveal to her that he was going to propose to Margaret, that he had been actively courting her ever since he gave her the tour of the mill in August. But Mother had shut down any attempt on his behalf to broach the subject.

He wanted to ask her why she was acting so hardhearted about his choice of wife, but they did not share that kind of relationship. They never spoke of their feelings. He had not minded that before, but now he was in desperate need of her advice. He was sure that, if she wanted, Mother could be very helpful in his courtship. Instead, he was forced to stumble along alone, without any direction about whether he was doing the right thing.

He had furtively borrowed his mother's book on etiquette as it had a section on courtship, but it was infuriatingly unhelpful. It explained that he ought to always treat the lady as his superior (which wasn't difficult, as Margaret was above him in both class and kindheartedness); and always be polite – which he was, now. But he _had_ presented himself rudely to her in the beginning, but he hoped that she would forgive it as a momentary lapse in judgment; he had not known they were going to meet that day, after all.

The book further advised him to make himself agreeable to her family. This was not difficult on Mr. Hale's side, but Mrs. Hale did not spend a great deal of time in his company. As for gifts, few were allowed before an engagement was entered into; only light things such as flowers and music. John knew from his mother and sister that Margaret did not play the piano and he had no idea how to go about gifting music to someone who sang. He also got the impression that Margaret would not be that moved by flowers; she was academically minded and would likely prefer books. He knew she liked to sew, but the giving of wearing apparel, even that of cloth, was expressly forbidden.

There had also been information that was entirely useless to him, such as dancing etiquette and how to conduct oneself at a concert or sporting event, or in church. He and Margaret did not frequent any of the first two; he was busy with the mill and Margaret spent a great deal of her time at the hospital or foundling home, not attending parties or paying calls. Nor did his family attend church services. They were Anglicans, but after his father's death, they no longer felt welcome, or indeed, felt inclined, to attend church.

It had ended the passage by advising him to not 'encumber himself too much with rules of social etiquette' which was counterproductive; why all the rules in the first place then?

There was no advice of the kind he really wanted to know. He did not want to be told that he must always be polite and gentlemanly; that the lady should not be held up in the street to talk, or must always be given the wall when walking, and that he must carry her parcels for her. He wanted to know actual useful things like how to speak words of affection without stuttering like a fool; or how to tell if the woman reciprocated the gentleman's feelings. He wanted to know how to propose; how to tell her that he was able to take care of her and keep her in comfort, without it coming across as a business transaction.

Most of all, he wanted to know how to tell her he loved her.

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A few days later, John was walking to Crampton, eager for a visit with the Hales. He hoped that Margaret would be home. He knew she sometimes visited the hospital on Sundays.

The evening October sky was an explosion of colour; orange, pink and deep blue. It reminded John of Margaret, as most things seemed to. Her midnight blue dress that she had been wearing the day he told her about his history. The becoming pink of her blush. John snorted to himself. Perhaps he could write poetry to her, if he was thinking that nonsense.

Margaret had taken to sitting more often with John and Mr. Hale in the drawing room after his lesson. She spoke intelligently about many things – politics, history, art. He had questioned her almost incessantly, wanting to know more about her.

He learned that she thought the current Prime Minister a bit of a weathervane about his views, but less of a scoundrel than his predecessor. She told him that she loved the story of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; that Marie Antoinette was one of her favorite historical figures, along with Isabella of Castile. She liked paintings that were quietly beautiful, particularly the ones with hidden figures or surprising subjects. She adored marble sculptures, for both their beauty and the masters' skill at the craft.

She took her tea with lots of milk and a bit of sugar. She liked anything that had almonds in it, and hated ginger, unless it was a ginger cake. She was quite the botanist and was able to name many plants and their uses in medicine. As a child, she collected butterflies, had a wooden sword collection, and a pony she named Peaches. She was fluent in French, and could read Latin, German and some Greek. Like John, she was an avid reader, but liked a more varied number of subjects than he did.

She asked after himself too. The conversation was stilted in the beginning. He was not used to talking about himself. But her keenness, and Mr. Hale's quiet encouragement, soon put him at ease. He told her things he had never told anyone, or indeed, thought of, in years.

He'd had a dog when he was a young child. It had been his father's since it was a puppy but had attached itself to John. He could not recall the dog's true name because he had only ever called him Bob (the Hales had laughed uproariously at that). He had a good memory for mathematics and geography; he enjoyed learning about other countries. He particularly wanted to visit Tuscany and Scotland. His most treasured possession was a pocket watch that had belonged to his father. He'd never been further south than Nottingham. Both his parents had been the only surviving siblings of their respective families and as a consequence he and Fanny had no aunts, uncles or cousins. And no longer any grandparents.

His accounts were lonelier than hers. But Margaret had a gift for expression that he did not. She was able to spin even the most mundane tales into long exciting stories. He'd never laughed so much as he did at these visits with the Hales.

Today, at the suggestion of the etiquette book, John had brought a gift with him for Margaret. It was not a particularly romantic gift but he knew it would please her. She had mentioned last week that she wanted to read Charles Dickens' latest novel and John happened to have a copy of it. He was not hugely fond of Dickens because his writing on the poor was painfully accurate and John had no desire to read an account of a life he had once lived in reality. But Margaret liked modern authors, and he was one of her favorites.

Just as he turned into the Hales' street, a shout of delight made him look up. He watched in growing horror, as Margaret – his beloved Margaret – threw herself into the arms of a grinning man with auburn hair. The man spun her around a wide circle, the two of them laughing joyfully.

"Marguerite, my lovely!" he enthused, giving her a sound kiss on the cheek.

John felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. He was in so much pain he couldn't breathe right. He stumbled away, visit entirely forgotten. He blundered back to the mill almost drunkenly. Once there, he went to his office in the mill. He did not want to see his mother or face her questions. He did not want to hear that she had been right; that Margaret would never care for him. Of course Margaret would prefer a handsome Southern gentleman to a crass nobody like himself. She'd probably been engaged to the man this whole time. _That_ was why she was so unreceptive to him, she was in love with another! The perfect gentleman who owned an estate, and never had to work. They could spend their days hunting and riding and talking of politics.

There would be no more conversations, no more laughter. He would never again have to opportunity to be surprised by her, to watch her bite her lip when she was nervous, or crinkle her nose in that funny way when she was thinking hard about something.

At least he had not expressed his feelings. He had spared her the embarrassment of explaining how mistaken he was. That she had been showing him nothing more than common kindness whenever they were together.

"Master?" Williams hesitant voice sounded from behind him. John belatedly realized he had likely made a great deal of noise with his arrival, stumbling blindly up the stairs. "Are ya alright?"

No, he was not alright. He was filled with an intense rage. He had been so blind and stupid. He knew from the beginning that nothing would come of this and _still_ he would not listen. He had brought this all on himself. That thought did not lessen his anger in the slightest.

"Get out!" he bellowed at Williams. John slammed the office door so hard that the windows rattled in their frames. He kicked a low table against the wall. It splinted into several pieces. John sagged against the side of his bookcase. He slid down it until he was sitting on the cold wooden floor. He beat his head against the edge of the bookcase repeatedly, pounding out a steady rhythm. The sharp pain of it reminding him that he needed to keep himself here, in the present.

Keep the darkness at bay, stay here, stay here, do not disappear.

 _Crack_. Mother needed him. _Crack_. Fanny needed him. _Crack_. He could not let the mill suffer. _Crack_. He had worked so hard. _Crack_. He could not fail now.

John awoke hours later, to find that he had scratched at the skin of his forearms so much that he had bled into his shirt sleeves. His throat was dry. He wondered if he had been crying. He could not recall doing so.

He stood and retrieved his coat from where he had flung it and pulled it on, hissing as it made contact with the wounds on his arms. John gather up the broken pieces of the table and put them in the fireplace. He'd burn them tomorrow.

John crept quietly into the house, hoping not to wake his mother or sister. It was not so late that Mother might be worried about his whereabouts.

John did not sleep at all.

When the sun rose, so did he. He splashed cold water on his face. He must get up, he must work.

Keep working, never stop. Stay awake, stay here. Do not disappear.

He found Fanny and Mother sitting down together in the breakfast room. His mother looked concerned. No doubt she could see the shadows under his eyes. Fanny was almost bouncing in her seat; she was so bursting to say something.

"You'll never guess what I heard last night. Miss Hale has a _lover_ ," she said gleefully. John gave a low moan of pain at that. Fanny had likely waited until this morning to tell her tale, wanting John to hear what a mistake he had made in his friendship with the Hales.

"Fanny," scolded Mother. "That is a lie. You will not repeat it. While I do not like her in the slightest, Miss Hale is a woman of good character."

"It's true, Mother! Mrs. Arthur saw it with her own eyes. Miss Hale was seen embracing a man, at _night_ , in the street."

"I do not believe it…," said Mother slowly. While Fanny might be given to exaggeration, Mrs. Arthur was not. Mother noticed that John was standing stock still and had yet to turn away from the sideboard.

"John? Did you know about this? You went to visit Mr. Hale last night did you not?" she asked him. John cleared his throat. His voice still came out slightly hoarse.

"I did see Miss Hale with the man."

"See!" said Fanny triumphantly. "I knew all along she was bad news, but none of you would listen. I was right and John was wrong."

"It was not a lover. It was likely her intended," said John, almost choking on the words.

"She's never mentioned there being such a person before. Nor have her parents. But if he came to their house, they must know of it," Mother mused.

"Was he very plain? Mrs. Arthur said she did not get a good look at his face. But Miss Hale is not a very attractive woman, so I doubt he's worth looking at," sneered Fanny.

"I must get to the mill." John turned abruptly and fled the room. He did not return to the house until well after midnight.

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Margaret had been preparing to go out to visit Sarah. She had been in the process of tying the ribbons on her bonnet, looking at her reflection in the window, when her eyes refocused and she saw, to her utter shock, that her brother Fred was standing in the street. She blinked rapidly, thinking it was a hallucination. When she realized it wasn't, she'd flung open the door and raced towards him. She leapt into his arms and hugged him tightly.

"Marguerite, my lovely!" He swung her around in a circle and gave her a swift kiss. Margaret laughed to hear him use his old pet name for her.

"Fred, put me down!" she scolded halfheartedly. "What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?"

"Nothing other than a deep burning desire to see my favorite sister," he teased. Margaret rolled her eyes at that.

"Come inside, quickly. Mama and Papa will be so happy to see you!" Fred bent to pick up his bag. Margaret practically dragged him into the house by his sleeve.

"Margaret? Why is the door wide open?"

Papa stopped in the entrance way at the sight of Fred. He and Fred walked slowly towards one another. Mr. Hale, with tears in his eyes, took Fred's face between his hands.

"My dear boy! My son. You've come home!" The two men embraced heartily.

"I have, Father. I am here at last. I wanted to see this Milton Maggie could not stop talking about," grinned Fred. Mama was drawn down from her parlor at the noise. She leaned over the bannister to look at the visitor and gave a screech of surprise.

"Frederick! Oh, Frederick!" she raced down the stairs and into her son's arms.

"Mother," said Fred, giving her kiss on the cheek. "I am home at last. Take me away, feed me up. I'm here for good." The Hales laughed at that, and did as he bid. The family barely ate any dinner. They were to busy talking, asking questions, begging for news about what he had been up to.

"I had to get away from France. Far to dreary this time of year. Thought it was time to be back in jolly old England. I was in London for a bit. But I grew tired of it quicker than I thought. I wanted a change of scene. Then I thought, what more change can there be than a dirty, noisy factory town?" he chortled. Margaret knew, as did her parents, that there was more to the story than Fred let on. He was hiding something, as usual. He never confirmed or denied any of the things his parents had hesitated to ask him over the years.

Although Fred professed that he was staying for good, he'd brought very few things with him. Her brother could almost be considered a dandy, he spent so much on clothes and shoes. For him to travel so lightly was suspicious.

Later, after their parents had gone to bed, the two siblings sat in the drawing room and talked long into the night. Fred usually told Margaret more of his secrets than he did his parents. He was not in much of a sharing mood tonight, however, and Margaret could get little from him. Instead, she told him of her life in Milton. She told him more stories about her work at the hospital and her project with the face masks. Fred listened intently but seemed out of sorts, more withdrawn than he usually was. Margaret wondered if it had anything to do with the fading bruise on his cheek and asked him about it.

"Got into a fight is all. At the King's Arms. I got my licks in too, don't you worry. The other fellow looks worse than I do."

"Why are you like this, Fred?" Margaret groaned. "What can't you just walk away?"

"I don't know, Maggie. I just do things, without reflecting on them. Life always seems so easy for other people but no matter how hard I try I never seem to do as well as others," replied Fred morosely.

Since coming to Milton, Margaret had occasion to reflect on her upbringing and her character in a way that she never needed to in London. She and Fred were similar in many ways. It was clear to Margaret that Fred felt the same restlessness she did, only he directed it inwards at himself. As a man, Fred did not have the same restrictions upon his person as Margaret did and was free to do as he liked. For people who felt as Margaret and Fred did, that was dangerous. Due to her gender and her more sheltered life, Margaret had been forced to channel her energy in productive ways. But Fred, with no limitations whatsoever, not even from his parents, never found a use for his energy.

Margaret saw Fred as a manifestation of all that was wrong with society in the South. He had been given many advantages; a gentleman's education, job opportunities but threw them all away. He thought only of his own amusement, how others might serve him. A careless spendthrift, he lavished baubles and attention on anyone he thought worthy. He lost countless jobs due to his slovenly ways.

He had run away to sea when he was fifteen, using the pseudonym of Frederick Smith. He wrote to Margaret, cheerfully recounting all the wonderful things he saw. When he did visit, he brought back many wonderful things for his mother and sister. A Japanese fan, a gold ring from South America. One of Margaret's favorite items was an elaborate ankle chain from which tiny medallions and faux bells hung, that Fred had brought her back from India. He told her Indian brides wore this jewelry, and it put a secretive smile on her face whenever she wore it beneath her stocking.

However, it wasn't long before Fred's new name began to appear in the papers; connected with any number of renegade behaviours, from thievery to drunkenness. He stayed sea for a few years, before being discharged for insubordination after the Navy could no longer ignore his exploits. It was the longest he had held employment. Margaret imagined it was due to the new places he had got to experience and the ever changing scenery.

"Mama and Papa are so happy you're home, Fred. Do you mean it when you say you're here for good? It would be terrible of you to disappoint them," Margaret said.

"Yes, here to stay, as promised. I'll have to get a job, eh, Maggie? Contribute to society," he sighed, flopping back against the sofa cushions in an exaggerated show of laziness. Margaret grinned at him.

"Yes, that would be best. Although I won't be helping you get a job with any of my acquaintances, so you can forget about that plan!" Fred pouted at her. "Ask Papa for help. I'm sure he will know of something."

"I think I'll look myself first. Then see if Father can help. I don't want to burden him."

"Fred! He would help you no matter what, you know that," said Margaret reprovingly.

Fred was determined though, that his father not have anything to do with his new occupation if he could help it. His relationship with his father was a strained one. Mr. Hale was not a strict man by any stretch of the imagination. Margaret could not recall a time he even raised his voice in anger. He preferred to govern with love and affection, and his children thrived under his guidance. But as Fred grew older and more wild, he was forever testing his parents. And when he discovered that no matter what he did, he'd be embraced and forgiven, he began to spiral out of control. He had no self-discipline to speak of. And he steadfast refused to acknowledge any of the help his parents had given him over the years.

Perhaps in Milton, with its energy and drive, Fred would come to his senses, as Margaret had.

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Caoimhe and Dixon had the clothing irons set up in the kitchen, heaped with coals from the fire. Dixon was demonstrating the best way to starch and iron various garments.

"Make sure you press down firmly. And, for heavens sake, don't leave the iron on the clothes too long again, it'll burn them," instructed Dixon. Caoimhe maneuvered the iron nervously over Papa's white shirts. She had previously scorched a shift of Margaret's by accident and Dixon had banished her from the task for ages in the hope that her occasional clumsiness would improve.

Margaret was also in the kitchen, preparing a few new cosmetics for herself. She kept one eye on the heating beeswax while she crushed the ingredients for a face powder in a container.

Mr. Hale came into the kitchen, holding a note and frowning.

"Papa. You're back early," said Margaret, surprised.

"Yes, one of my pupils cancelled our appointment, and I came back looking forward to Mr. Thornton's lesson, only to discover that he also fears he might find himself too busy to read this evening."

Margaret thought that odd indeed. Mr. Thornton had never cancelled a lesson before. Papa held the note out to Margaret. It was very short, only a line of hurried script, and his initials. Margaret did not know what to make of it. "Perhaps there was some issue at the mill," she said.

"Possibly. But why would he not say as much?" her father asked, brow creased. Margaret did not know. Mr. Thornton and her father were great friends. Mr. Thornton had been much more open and relaxed of late. She'd even compelled him to tell her more about himself by supplying her own stories and hoping he would respond in kind. He'd asked her all manner of questions about interesting things. Margaret enjoyed his visits, and he seemed to as well. She did not think he would be so impolite to her father intentionally.

"I doubt it is anything alarming. We'd have heard if there had been an accident or if a strike had begun. I'm sure he will resume his lessons in a few days," Margaret reassured her father.

"Yes, you are right, of course. Maybe I'll write him a little note of encouragement, hoping he can come tomorrow instead."

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When John returned to his office and saw Mr. Bell waiting there for him, he almost turned and strode out again. He did not have the stamina to deal with the man right now. John was functioning on very little sleep. He hadn't eaten anything in days. He'd been driven to cancel his lesson with Mr. Hale so that he would not have to encounter Margaret and her beau. To be introduced to the man, to see Margaret content in the arms of another would be agonizing. He wondered how he might continue his lessons and avoid Margaret all together. He knew he would never be able to face her again without being reminded that all his fondest hopes and dreams had be torn apart. Perhaps he could ask Mr. Hale to call on him at the manor instead.

John's anger and pain had given way to a familiar feeling of emptiness. He was just going through the motions again, as he had been doing before Margaret came into his life. The darkness was back with a vengeance, its tendrils creeping forever forward, just out of his line of sight. He wondered how long it would be before it consumed him. This did not distress him as it once would have. He almost welcomed it. Margaret would be happy and he would be gone. Just as it should be.

Mr. Bell had noticed John standing listlessly in the doorway. He looked faintly disturbed by John's demeanor. "Thornton! My boy, you look positively ill! Are you coming down with something?"

"No. What are you doing here." John's voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. I've come for a visit with Mr. Hale is all. He said Fred had come up. The man's not been here has he?" asked Mr. Bell. John's apathy was pierced by a slight feeling of uneasiness. Why would Mr. Hale tell Mr. Bell about Margaret's beau visiting her? Why would Mr. Bell race up here to see him? Was John missing something crucial to the story? A strange buzzing was beginning to take place in the back of his head.

"No one has been here."

Mr. Bell rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He looked as though he was unsure how to respond to John's dispirited replies. "Ah, good. I didn't think so, but I thought I'd check. I know Margaret told her brother about Milton and her work with the mill. I hoped he wouldn't come here causing trouble, but it would be just the thing he might do for a lark – I say, Thornton, are you alright?" John was gripping the doorframe very tightly. Only one word of Mr. Bell's stuck in his mind.

"Brother?"

"Yes," said Mr. Bell slowly. "Margaret's brother, Fred, has come for a visit. He's been in France for the summer. Didn't Mr. Hale mention it?"

John couldn't answer. The word 'brother' was clanging around in his head with increasing volume. He began to shake. The man he saw was her _brother_. That made far more sense than a suitor, especially when he remembered everything that had happened these past months, all the pieces of the puzzle that he had failed to put together. He remembered the elder Hales reaction to his insult about Southern men. The explanation Margaret had given him about a reckless _relative_ of hers. In his jealousy and self-hatred, he entirely misread the situation.

Mr. Bell seemed to realize suddenly that John was not privy to the details about the need for the concealment of Margaret's brother, and that he might have inadvertently given the secret away.

"Never mind. It is of no consequence. I must be going. Good day, Thornton."

John let Mr. Bell pass. After a few moments, he carefully closed the office door. John then began to laugh manically at his own foolishness.

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*Authors Note: the comment about the Thornton's being ostracized from their church is not meant as a derogatory reflection on any religious group. Suicide _was_ condemned at that time, but I wanted to present it more as John and his Mother becoming disillusioned with organized worship and perhaps hurt by the actions of the church; not turning their back on their faith.

If anyone is upset by the passage, please let me know and I will remove it.


	19. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure"

John almost cancelled his lesson with Mr. Hale again, he was so nervous. Mr. Bell's odd commentary on Margaret's brother visiting his mill confused him. As did the need for secrecy. The Hales had gone out of their way to make sure there was no evidence of another member of the family. Margaret had told him her brother was involved in reckless pursuits but did not expand on what that might be. It seemed to John that the Hales were not keeping the man a secret out of shame, rather protecting him from something. John wondered what terrible thing the son could have done to force his family to such extremes.

John was also unsure how he would be received. He reasoned that Mr. Hale still wanted him to visit, despite the arrival of the secreted son. His kind note imploring John to visit when he was next available proved that. Surely, if Mr. Hale wanted to keep his son hidden from John, he would have asked John not to come.

Although, none of the Hales knew that he had witnessed the scene between Margaret and her brother. Perhaps the man would be out for the evening and not spoken of. John's mind spun in circles until he exasperatedly informed himself that the only way he was going to get an answer to any of his questions would be by making his prearranged visit with Mr. Hale.

He knocked on the door with some trepidation. The young maid admitted him and took his gloves and hat with a gap-toothed smile. John found Mr. Hale in the study, buried in a book with his brow furrowed. His expression morphed into one of such keenness at John's appearance, that John felt uncharitable in his behaviour.

"John! I am pleased you are here. I've just ordered a new set of books about Scotland's political history and I am excited to share them with you today."

"Mr. Hale. I apologize for my absence last week. I was… busy with a pressing matter," said John, feeling more and more wretched by his behaviour.

"No matter, no matter. I know the strike talk is heating up. No doubt you've been busy with that," said Mr. Hale easily.

John seized gratefully onto the excuse. "Aye. I believe it very likely a strike will happen soon. The union leaders have put in their formal request for higher wages. They expect to be turned down."

"Ah yes. That is the nature of bargaining, is it not. To ask for more than you know what you will be given. But I've not seen such a thing result in a strike before. It seems as though the union _want_ the masters to be against them in this."

"They are combative men. If we were not their advisory, someone else would be."

Mr. Hale grinned at that. "Wise words, indeed. Come. Let us forget it for the moment and lose ourselves in the intrigue and bloodthirstiness of the Scottish clans, eh?"

The lesson continued easily for the topic was an interesting one. John felt himself drawn into it, despite his lingering uneasiness. Soon he and Mr. Hale were debating good-humoredly over the clans, Mr. Hale on the side of their independence, John after guidance and censure from the Crown.

"Enough," laughed Mr. Hale. "We'd best stop now while our friendship still remains intact."

John grinned. "Very well. You ought to bow out now before I win." Mr. Hale laughed again, and motioned that they should move into the drawing room. When Mr. Hale stood however, his expression became suddenly graver.

"Ah, John, before we do…," Mr. Hale rubbed his hands together in discomfort. "I'm afraid I have not been entirely honest with you. As a friend, this is remiss of me. You've become a dear friend and pupil and I ought not keep secrets from you," he sighed heavily. "My son, Frederick has come home. He's been away for… oh, many years now. I know Margaret has told you about him, about his… exploits. I will not bandy about the details, were are unsure if they are true in any case. We have not referred to beforehand, for Margaret's sake. It would cause her great trouble if was known to society that we were connected to such a man. It was Fred's idea, to keep his distance. But nothing has happened recently, so he no doubt thought it would be fine to come home for a bit. And we are new to Milton and there's no one here to know of our connection. I am unsure how long he intends to stay, but I hope the two of you will become acquainted. Perhaps you can be a calming influence," Mr. Hale said, his eyes earnest.

"I see. Well, I am pleased to meet your son. And I will do what I can," nodded John, his mind whirring with this new information. How could her own brother hurt Margaret's reputation? John felt his anger rise at the very thought of anyone causing Margaret distress. He hesitated slightly. "These exploits, are they the reason you moved to Milton? Why you left the church?"

"Yes. I felt I was being hypocritical in my sermons. I could not get my own son to follow doctrine, how could I preach it to my congregation? I stayed quiet for some years, mindful of the sorrow it would cause my wife and daughter if they knew how I felt. But as the newspaper stories about Fred became more and more wild, the shame became too great. I felt I had to act. I have not been remiss in moving to Milton, I think. Margaret in particular seems to thrive here." Mr. Hale lifted his kind gaze to John. "Very few people know of Fred's origins. I know that I can trust you to keep a confidence about what you will no doubt learn about him."

"Of course, sir. You have my word," John promised somberly.

Mr. Hale nodded happily. "Good. I knew I could count on you, my friend. Now," he clapped his hands in relish. "Margaret and Caoimhe have been baking again today. I was skeptical at first, but they've become much better at it. I'm sure they'll have laid out some exciting new delicacy for us to try."

John's stomach swooped at the at the anticipation of seeing Margaret, after everything that had happened. Would she be able to read his mortification, his jealous and erroneous leaps of judgment? Mr. Hale led the way to the drawing room. John's heart jumped into his throat.

Margaret was sitting at her writing desk, adding steadily to an already very long letter. She looked up and greeted her father and John as they came into the room. John's breathed chuffed out at the sight of her welcoming smile.

Mr. Hale's son was sitting on the windowsill, the shutters next to him thrown open despite the cold night. The reason soon became apparent; the young man was smoking a cigarette, breathing the smoke out the window. John was taken aback by that. Men were not permitted to smoke in the presence of women, even in one's own home. Mr. Hale too, was annoyed by his son's rudeness.

"Fred, put that out, please. One doesn't smoke in front of ladies," he said, glowering slightly.

Hale laughed. "Maggie doesn't count as a lady, do you Mags?"

Margaret made a face at her brother. "I told him he could Papa, so long as it was outside. I'd never hear the end of it if I let Fred ruin Mama's wallpaper."

Hale grinned in triumph. He stuck the cigarette more firmly between his teeth so that he could stretch out his hand to shake John's. "You must be Thornton; the cotton tradesman I've heard so much about."

"Manufacturer, Fred," Margaret corrected gently.

"Manufacturer, tradesman," Hale shrugged. "I'll get the 'ang o' this Northern patter in no time!" He spoke the sentence in an exaggerated Northern accent. John didn't know if he was trying to be funny or offensive.

John shook the proffered hand. Hale had removed his overcoat and had his shirtsleeves rolled up. John's shocked gaze fluttered over Hale's forearm, where a tattoo was branded; a ship in full sail surrounded by a garland. Hale was clearly nothing like his genteel family.

"Fred has been in France recently. He's hoping to get a job in Milton, as a clerk at the Cotton Exchange," Mr. Hale informed John.

"Do you have an interest in cotton?" John asked Hale.

"Not a wit," replied Hale comfortably. "But the work'll be easy enough. It'll keep Maggie off my back about making an effort." Hale stuck his tongue out at Margaret, another show of boorishness that irked John. Margaret gave her brother a leveled look before standing and preparing tea for everyone. There were biscuits laid out on a plate, iced in funny patterns. Margaret passed these around with pride, explaining that she and her maid had made them.

"Will you stay for dinner, John? I'd like you to get to know Fred more," said Mr. Hale with a cautious glance at his son, who had gone back to smoking again. John agreed, a little apprehensive. What he had seen so far made John think it unlikely that he and Hale would have anything in common. But John did want to make an effort to like the man, for Margaret's sake.

John asked Hale a few questions about himself, and only received vague answers. Some even bordered on the impolite. John felt his opinion of the man sway first one way, then the other. Hale was obviously easygoing, but also openly disobeyed his father's command and seemed antagonistic for no reason.

Margaret gave John a silent look of apology for her brother's behavior and he smiled reassuringly at her. Hale's manners were no worse than Slickson's or Harkness'. He was determined not to be offended. He noticed that Mr. Hale made no move to scold his son for his impropriety, only frowning weakly at him. It seemed that Mr. Hale had spoken the truth during their first lesson; he was not able to reprimand his children at all. Margaret was naturally sensible and therefore made none the worse by it. But Hale was clearly in need of constant rebuke, which his father did not provide him.

John watched Margaret all through tea and the ensuing dinner. His feelings of love and affection were still as strong as ever. Her demeanor was not changed in the slightest when she addressed him; she was still polite and kind. John found himself grinning at her in sheer relief whenever he caught her eye.

Mrs. Hale seemed like a whole other person. She was happy and obliging all through dinner. She piled food on Hale's plate, laughed at his antics and waved away Margaret's comments any time Margaret tried to soften Hale's jabs. She was ecstatic to have her son home. Her low spirits over the past months must have been due to her mourning his absence and the consequent strain of hiding his existence.

After dinner, the Hales and John retreated to the drawing room once more. Margaret drew John aside, her expression tense.

"Mr. Thornton, I apologize for my brother's behaviour. He is not trying to be rude, he simply is oblivious to everyone but himself. Which is no better, I know, but I assure you he is not trying to bait you on purpose."

"I am glad to hear it. I'm sure I will come to like him in time," he said carefully, not wanting to upset her.

It appeared that Margaret was well aware her brother's faults however, and was not fooled by John's statement. "Fred has a way of irritating everyone, but he never lacks for friends. He is able to draw people in, thinking they have his approval and then turn on them. When they confront him about it, he has such a silver tongue he is able to turn the conversation about until the person is convinced the offence was all of their own making."

John could see instantly the picture Margaret painted of her brother. He wondered if Hale had criminal leanings, and that was why he was hidden by the family. Perhaps the trouble Hale had gotten himself into involved extortion or blackmail. Those were exactly the types of cons that people like Hale excelled at.

"Don't worry, Miss Hale," smiled John. "I am not going to let myself be taken in by him, not matter how persuasive he tries to make himself."

"I did not think you would, you are much too careful. Mr. Bell told Papa and I that he visited you at your mill –," John tensed. He hoped Mr. Bell had not told them of John's distraught appearance. "–to see if Fred had been there. My parents are afraid to ask Fred anything about his dealings. Only Mr. Bell is rude enough to push himself into Fred's affairs. I'm afraid I told Fred about your mill when I was explaining to him about my masks and my work at the hospital." Margaret looked apologetically at him.

John was confused. "Why would that merit an apology, Miss Hale? I do not mind you telling people about what you have done for my workers. In fact, I welcome it."

"Your mill is prosperous, Mr. Thornton. It is the kind of thing Fred would be drawn to. Mr. Bell and I were worried that he would come to you asking for employment or a loan or some such thing." She fluttered her hand quickly at his look of growing alarm and displeasure. "He'd not steal from you, Mr. Thornton! I swear, nothing of the sort. But if he convinced you to give him a job, he'd do it so slovenly, he'd drive your business into the ground before you even knew what was happening. Many before you have tried to help him and met the same fate. Mr. Bell and I wanted to warn you off listening to anything Fred asks of you."

"I see. Thank you for your warning." John knew it was not an empty caution; Margaret would know her brother's character.

"I'm sure you've noticed that my parents do not handle Fred well. Mama is either sad at his absence or pleased by his presence. She dotes upon him. Papa prefers to ignore Fred's faults, as though that would make them disappear. Fred listens to me, but only to a point. We're at our wits end about what to do with him."

"He is still young. I'm sure he will settle down," John tried to soothe her. Margaret did not look convinced. Hale ambled over to the pair of them. John and Margaret's conversation was abandoned in light of her brother's presence.

"C'mon, we'll play All-Fours. Shilling a point," he drawled.

"A _shilling_? What are you, the King of Naples?" exclaimed Margaret, astounded.

"Penny a point, then."

"I've no money anyway," said Margaret. "We'll have to play with imaginary pennies. Or buttons."

Hale rolled his eyes. "What did you spend it all on this time?"

"Wages for the maids."

"Of course you did, Lady Bountiful," laughed Hale. The table was cleared and John and the Hale siblings were quickly engaged in a game of All-Fours with a deck of cards Hale pulled from his waistcoat pocket. Hale had to explain the rules of the game, as neither John nor Margaret had played before. They did indeed play for buttons, taken from Margaret's sewing box. John was glad of that; he disliked gambling. It was simply another form of speculation.

The game was a lively one, with much playful arguing from the siblings. They had a comical way of talking to each other, fast and light, with many pointed jests. It was a stark contrast to John and his sister. The two of them had little in common, and seemed to do nothing other than growl at each other, especially lately.

"Are you teaching Margaret to gamble?" asked Mr. Hale incredulously, coming over to investigate the source of the laughter.

"It's not gambling if you're winning, Papa," Margaret cackled as she pulled more of Hale's buttons towards herself.

"And she's only been playing for ten minutes! It's like she's cheating," Hale grumbled.

"Maybe you're just horrendously bad at it, Fred."

"That would explain so much."

John couldn't help snorting with laughter at that. Margaret grinned at him. Hale made a melodramatic face of displeasure at the pair of them.

"Edith wrote and told me that her brother-in-law, Henry Lenox, is to be married," Margaret told Hale and her father quickly, to cover Hale's rudeness.

"I thought he was already married," said Mr. Hale, confused.

" _I_ thought he was _dead_ ," exclaimed Hale.

"That was the elder brother; Hugo."

"Aw, the better one…"

"Fred," scolded Margaret.

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Mr. Bell came to visit Fred again the next day, determined to help him secure employment.

"I have a few friends at the Exchange, I can make introductions for you. And you're clever when you want to be, so the work will not be hard," said Mr. Bell severely. Nothing ever seemed to vex Mr. Bell, other than Fred. Margaret often wondered if he felt he had to be so hard towards Fred to pick up Papa's slack.

Fred rolled his eyes and took up his hat, preparing to go out with Margaret and explore Milton. "I'm perfectly capable of finding a job on my own. I'm five and twenty, not a child."

"Really?" said Mr. Bell sarcastically. "Could've fooled me."

Fred shot him a rude look and left the room. Mr. Bell sighed and turned to Margaret. "Try and stop him doing anything too foolish," he implored, as though she had not been trying to do that very thing since Fred was ten years old.

"I will try, of course, but you of all people should know that Fred is more likely to do something for no other reason than because he was ordered not to," said Margaret shortly. "We ought to leave him alone for now. Once his money runs out and he gets bored with sitting around, he'll get a job on his own."

Margaret showed Fred all of her favourite spots around the city. He had a particular liking for the shipyard and spoke to her excitedly about the different types of vessels and stories of his time at sea. They walked along the shopping arcade, Fred lamenting the limited choice compared to London.

"Almost no stocks of riding clothes! A travesty!"

"Not many people ride here, Fred. There's no space enough."

"London is ten times larger, and people still ride there," he retorted.

"Fair enough; but here there is a less of a focus on leisurely pursuits. People work harder in Milton," said Margaret, a tinge of pride in her voice.

"Ack, how can you stand it?" he groaned.

"I love it. I far prefer to be doing something than not."

"I bet I can find amusing things to do anyway. I can sniff out a fun time thirty miles off."

"That should _not_ be the trait you're proudest of," laughed Margaret.

She noticed that the two of them were getting a few odd looks from people as they wandered around. She was bemused by this, but Fred wasn't – he began to call her 'sister' loudly, and talking about their mother and father at a higher volume than necessary. Margaret was about to tell him to quiet down, when she realized what he was doing. She had not thought much on his arrival, too excited by his presence. But it must have looked odd on the outside, a young man sneakily showing up to their house in the evening. No doubt people though he was a suitor of hers.

Fred had thought of this too. He took great delight in making a scene as they walked. Margaret knew he was trying to make up for causing her trouble, but still wished he didn't have to.

They met Fanny and her friend in the arcade; Fanny looked to be buying out the whole shop for the winter season. Fanny had spotted Margaret and Fred and barreled out for the shop to speak with Margaret, which surprised her – the two of them were not good friends. The questions she put to her made Margaret realize Fanny's purpose; she had heard about Fred's arrival as well and it was clear from her malicious questions and chagrined demeanor when their replies didn't support her belief, that she had thought Fred to be a mysterious lover come to call.

Fred and Margaret returned home to find that Mr. Bell had spoken with Papa about securing Fred employment, despite Fred's protests. Papa and Fred had a bit of a row over it, with Papa pleading that Fred ought to take up the place, citing that if he disliked the work, he could always find another position later; to which Fred reluctantly agreed. Mama also protested, exclaiming that Fred was only just arrived, but Papa was adamant. Fred was to begin on Monday.

Margaret was surprised that Fred agreed with so little fuss. In fact, he seemed a little more downcast than he usually was. He was full of laughter and jest in company or in public, but when the two of them were alone, he became a bit melancholy, which wasn't like him at all. Margaret had tried to ask him if something was wrong, but was deflected. He answered her nonchalantly, but it was clear from his expression that he didn't want to be interrogated further, and so Margaret let it lie, desperately hoping it wasn't something devastating.

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"I can't believe it was her brother! It's hard to imagine such a handsome man is related to Miss Hale," scorned Fanny.

"How odd that he should arrive so; late at night, on foot. Did you meet him, John?" Mother asked him.

"I did. He seems an affable man. Mr. and Mrs. Hale are pleased by his visit," replied John shortly. He was annoyed by Fanny's slight, and told her so. "And I'll thank you not to insult the Hales; they're a respectable family and do not deserve your rude comments."

"You must admit it's strange. Did they not tell you anything about it?" pressed Mother.

John sighed. "Mr. Hale explained the circumstances to me, yes." At his mother's expectant look, he continued. "But it was in confidence. I promised that I would not repeat it, and I won't. I was also not told all of the details and won't speculate with half the story."

"Well, I think it's all very untoward, no matter that he turned out not to be a lover," continued Fanny, deciding to ignore John's rebuke.

John glared at her and pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. He shut himself up in his library and went over the mill books again. Fanny was irritating him more often right now and he knew it was his stress that was making it appear so. All of his emotional upheaval was taken its toll – his despair at the loss of Margaret, the utter elation he experienced when he found he was mistaken, coupled with the all that was happening with the workers… all of it was a recipe for a very irritable person. He resolved to stay out of Fanny's way until he calmed down, so that he would not cause himself to be unjustly unkind toward her.

He stayed in the library for a good few hours, going over all his ledgers and orders with growing concern. It was clear that the strike was not longer just talk, it was imminent. The hostile treatment of the workers had finally gotten to them. They had become group of volatile desperate men. They were unwilling to listen to reason. He wearily ran his hands down his face and jerkily unwound his cravat from his throat and cast it to his desk.

Mother put her hand on John's arm, almost causing him to jump. He had not heard her come into the library. He turned to see her lined face set in a determined frown.

"Are the hands about to turn out?" she asked him, her grip tightening slightly on his forearm.

John exhaled heavily. The two of them had not spoken about the strike yet, but he knew Mother saw that he was anxious over it.

"They're waiting for the moment I have to turn down their wage demands," he confirmed. "Their request is too high. They are asking for an extra four shillings a week. It would mean an additional 185 pounds, just for this month alone. I cannot afford to meet that demand at present. I cannot pay them at all until the orders are filled."

"Are there many orders in hand?"

John nodded. They had plenty of work for the hands to do, if they chose to. "Of course, there are orders well enough, and most of our regular contracts are still standing. But the Americans are flooding the market now as well."

The American cotton trade was becoming increasingly difficult for mills in England. The American mills did not have a reputation for quality as Milton did, and so were able to produce cloth at a cheaper rate. Many suppliers disliked the lack of quality, but some had switched in an effort to make more profit. John had lost two regular contracts to the American market in the last six months.

"Our only chance to compete is by producing at a faster rate than the Americans. But the faster we fill the orders, the longer it takes for us to be paid for them. It will mean buying more machines, hiring more workers. I don't have the money to invest in that yet," he groaned. "The men are less patient. They barely made up pay since their last cut five years ago. Cost of living goes up every week it seems. I don't know what to do."

John was reminded of Margaret's suggestions for the workers. The provision of a meal, more respites during the shift. The schooling for the children. If he implemented those, surely the workers would be happier, even if he was unable to increase their wages.

"Why don't they _listen_?" Mother growled. "You've told them all this. You've told them what you can afford. They think that by just putting their ignorant heads together, they'll get their way."

John smiled slightly at his mother's assertion. She looked as though she wanted to march straight down to the workers and start smacking them about until they saw sense. "Don't worry Mother. It's a young industry, these problems will iron themselves out. We're not yet in a position of selling up. It is not dire yet. I've sent Williams to Ireland with a vessel. I'll send word to him once the workers turn out and the strike lasts. We'll lose no time and all the orders will be filled."

"Good. Then you could get rid of the strikers. I would. I'd teach them that I was master and could employ who I like. It would serve them right if they starved due to their own foolishness," she said firmly.

"That's a little uncharitable of you," returned John, frowning at her. "I'll hire back all but the ringleaders. The hands have been lead astray by empty promises. I'll not punish them for their ignorance. I'll send the Irish back."

Mother made a noncommittal noise. She drummed her fingers on his desk and cast her gaze around at the shelves of books.

"What will you do if the strikers come here demanding answers?"

"I've left word at the barracks as a precaution. I don't think the strikers will do such a thing. Higgins in particular wants to be taken seriously," John replied.

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The other masters took a grimmer view John's plan for his mill if the strike lasted.

"If they find out you are planning to break the strike by bringing Irish workers, they'll be riots in the streets! Hiring a bunch of drunken Catholic insolvents to do the work; won't know nothin' about cotton work!" gaped Hamper.

"I take this risk for myself. You need not join in," John growled. He was tired of having his methods constantly picked to pieces by these men, even though his mill was one of the highest producing and least unethical in Milton. "I'm not a fool. I've informed the garrison what I plan to do. They will be prepared if need be. I can and will protect myself and anyone that works for me from any kind of violence."

"I sincerely hope so," drawled Slickson skeptically.

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During Margaret's visit with Bessy, Nicholas was called on by several other union members. They were talking adamantly about their plans for the strike. Both workers and masters are holding fast to their positions. Neither were willing to give way.

"We're all agreed then. When the wage demands are turned down, we will all stop our machines at the end of the day, Friday, ten minutes before time. And no-one, _no-one_ will start them up!" said Nicholas. He pounded his fist on the table for emphasis.

"How long do you think masters'll last out, if we're all together?" demanded one man.

"A week! Two weeks at most!"

"What if they sending for 'ands from Ireland?" insisted another.

"They wouldn't dare–!" began Nicholas.

"Thornton would! He'd die before being dictated on!" shouted the first man.

"I'd take him down if he gives me half a chance! And every Irishman that takes away our wages!"

"No!" yelled Nicholas, eyes bright with anger. "No violence! This is not a mob; this is an organization of thinking men! We have to show them we are worthy adversaries, not useless beasts to be brushed aside."

Margaret wanted to speak up. Despite Nicholas's assurances that the strike would only last a week, she thought that was exceedingly unlikely. She made several motions to speak, until Bessy finally had enough.

"Shut it!" she yelled. The men turned shamefaced to her and Margaret. They seemed to have forgotten they were in the presence of ladies, so fanatical were they to their cause. Margaret looked gratefully to Bessy, then faced the union leaders determinedly.

"I don't understand the necessity of a strike. Where I come from in the South, if the field labourers strike, the seed would not be sown and there'd be no harvest."

"So?"

"What would become of the farms?" asked Margaret, brow creasing. She did not think they had thought this through, despite Nicholas's instance to the contrary.

"The farmers would have to give them up, or maybe they could pay a fair wage for once!" stated one.

"Suppose they couldn't, even if they wished to!" Margaret implored. "Then they'd have no corn to sell and no wages to pay the next year."

"I don't know about the South. I've heard there are a lot of unspirited, downtrodden men," said Nicholas impatiently.

"I'm sure I'm very ignorant. But surely not all the masters would withhold pay with no reason!" said Margaret, looking imploringly at all the leaders. Why did they not understand?

"You're a foreigner," growled one of the men. "You know nothing! And to hell with Thornton's, Slickson's, Hamper's! To hell with the lot of them!"

"Is Mr. Thornton really as bad as the rest?" asked Margaret. The only thing the workers seemed to agree on was that Mr. Thornton's mill was the better place to work. But she also got the impression that the leaders fervently disliked him; more on principal than on actual fact. It must be known to some of them that Mr. Thornton was once poor like themselves, but had pulled himself out of it, while they had not.

Nicholas conceded her point. "He's a fighter, fierce as a bulldog. He'll stick to his word like a dog, I'll give him that. He's worth fighting _with_. That's the best I'll say for him." Nicholas sighed heavily. "I'll not argue with you, miss." With a quiet word to Bessy, Nicholas ushered the men outside. After they were gone, Bessy turned to Margaret.

"He doesn't mean to shout," she told Margaret sadly. "They're all nerves at the minute. Father talks so certain, but he's worried about keeping the strike together. There's a lot of men, and not all of them have the same discipline as Father."

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The masters had said no. Turned down their wage demands. The hands were expecting it. John believed that the request had purposely been set too high so that a strike was inevitable. They wanted a chance to air their grievances with actions, not words.

He glared at the weavers from the gangway. They'd been jumpy all day and talking more surreptitiously than usual. He was sure today would be the day they'd walk out. No doubt they thought that two days would be enough to make their point, and that the masters would be begging them to come back to work on Monday.

Sure enough, at ten minutes to six, all the machines ground to a halt. The weavers cut power to their looms. The ventilation wheel was turned off, loosing momentum with every revolution. The workers began to march as one to the loading docks. More joined their numbers as they went, the spinners, balers and loaders turning away from their tasks and joining their ranks.

Most walked out determinedly, but many also looked back at him with fearful eyes. John stared them down, hard and unmoving.

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Margaret felt Milton still beneath her feet. One after another, the noise in the cotton factories ceased. The smoke dissipated from the stacks as fires were extinguished in the sorting rooms. Margaret was forced to move out of the road as hundreds of workers spilled out of side streets and to the main avenue back to Princeton. Their faces were set with a look of determination. Only a few looked confused or upset by the turn of events.

The strike had begun.

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Despite this shocking news, Mr. Thornton came for his usual lesson that evening. Papa had also heard the strike had begun and was anxious to talk with Mr. Thornton about it. Fred and Margaret came and sat with Mr. Thornton and Papa in the study, also eager to hear his views.

"But how will you manage, John? You must have orders still, even though the winter months," frowned Papa.

"Aye, a large number. I've sent Williams to Dublin to fetch Irish labourers. I'll send word to him if the strike lasts."

There was silence at his words. Margaret knew, as Mr. Thornton did, that the Irish were not liked in England. Bringing in Irish workers to take the jobs of Englishman would cause many to be displeased, if not downright livid.

"I have taken precautions. The Irish will be looked after," Mr. Thornton told them, seeing their concerned expressions.

Margaret bit her lip. "But what will happen after the strike is over? Will you send the Irish back once the workers want to return to their posts?"

"Of course. I'll not let the workers starve from lack of wages."

"But the Irish are starving too! Their famine had been going on for years, and England as done almost nothing to help them. You've offered these people work only to snatch it out from under them?" asked Margaret, dismayed.

Mr. Thornton's gaze clouded with anger briefly, then morphed into one of calm. "I am sympathetic, Miss Hale. But nor can I deny the workers a post they have been working at for years. The Irish are going to be unskilled in how I run my mill, which will limit production. They are better than nothing. But I need skilled workers in my mills, not charity cases."

"Can't you keep them both? It will mean greater out put in the long run, with more workers and more machines," said Margaret.

Mr. Thornton thought on her words for a moment. "I have been considering expanding my production. Business has been increasing steadily, as people have become more receptive to cotton, and new things are being created with it… I suppose I could use the Irish to man the expansion."

"And surely you won't need to replace all of your employees? Your mill is one of the best in the county, not everyone will stay away. Most will return tomorrow or on Monday. It will likely only be the union members who will stay away; you could use the Irish to fill their posts," said Margaret.

Mr. Thornton's eyes lit with an expression she couldn't quite interpret; admiration perhaps, and something else intense. "Aye… I will think on it."

"Won't there be violence, once the workers learn you've broken the strike by using Irish?" Fred asked.

"I don't believe so. Higgins, the union leader, has been commanding the union to be civilised. He wants to be seen as a rational revolutionary," replied Mr. Thornton.

"You don't see him as such?" asked Papa, picking up on Mr. Thornton's dry tone.

"He is a thinker, not a brute, that's for sure. But he is misguided about what the strike will achieve. He is imagining a revolution. He has been collecting strike pay from the union members; to give back to them now in touches. He thinks he is doing them a kindness, but that action will only harm them more in the long run. The longer the strikers are supported, the more the strike will be prolonged. That is not kindness. They will be defeated, but it will take longer. Their pain will be prolonged," replied Mr. Thornton gravely.

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*Author's Note: tattoos were common in sailors during the Victorian era. They also spread to others as well; Queen Victoria's son Edward had several, including a Jerusalem Cross.


	20. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain: for they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain"

The strike had been going on far longer than John had thought it would; the hands had walked out on the first of November and it was now the fourteenth. It seemed the workers were better organised than last time. No doubt due to Higgins' influence. He seemed to turn the strike from a loose collection of desperate men causing trouble to a huge mass of disenfranchised people working to improve their lot.

John's twenty-ninth birthday on the fifth had passed without much celebration. His family had never made much of a fuss about birthdays, and this one in particular was clouded with tension from the strike.

He'd written to Williams; commanded him to round up a hundred Irish cotton labourers, to replace the workers who had not returned the day after the strike had been announced. Williams was due to arrive with them today by boat. John had told Williams to wait until nightfall before letting the Irish from the boat. He did not want to alert the public to what he was doing. Under the cover of darkness, it would be safer to ferry the workers in carts from the docks to the mill. John made arrangements for the workers to sleep and eat in the old baling shed; its conversion to mess hall completed just before the strike. He'd find more permanent accommodation for the workers and their families after the strike had been sorted out.

John stood on the dock, his frock coat flapping in the strong wind. He breathed in the scent of refuse, silt and water. He signalled to the Captain, who lowered the gangplank. Williams descended first, greeting John with a murmur.

"How was your journey?" John asked him.

"Well enough. I think you'll be pleased with who I brought. Mostly men, as you asked, to replace those who took up with the strike. Some brought their wives and children for work in the mill as well. I told the rest they could send for their families in a few weeks once it all were settled," replied Williams.

John pulled a notebook from his pocket. As the Irish began to trudge off the boat, he took down their names, ages and prior place of employment. Many came from the same textile mill.

He was troubled to see how thin and haggard the people looked. Their clothes were old and worn; their belongings scant. They all looked hungry and tired. John knew of the famine in Ireland, he'd read about it in the papers. He knew thousands of people died of starvation and disease, while thousands more left the country in droves, bound for England or America. But it had only been a fact. Until he saw them in person.

There's was a life with which he was familiar. The constant ache of hunger, the ever present threat of hopelessness. John sighed heavily. He knew now that he could not send them back after the strike was over. These people had been given a chance to escape and earn an honest wage. It would be heartless of him to deny them that; he saw that now.

His conversation with Margaret had opened him up to the new possibilities she had suggested. He acknowledged that the Irish could help him expand his enterprise and production rates. But it was his love for Margaret, the image of her kind smile behind his eyelids, that compelled him to act as he did. He knew that before Margaret, he'd have sent them back after the strike was over. But now, his heart softened with love, knew that he could no longer go down such a cruel path.

John directed the Irish to the waiting carts. He told them that they'd be taken to the mill tonight for a good meal and sleep, before beginning work fresh on Monday. Just as he swung himself into the bench by the driver, John saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused in his movements to look around for what had caught his attention. The edge of a man's coat and the scrape of a heel upon gravel was all that he could deduce, before the person disappeared around the corner of a building.

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He hoped it had been a dock worker, and not someone who knew him and what he was up to.

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Margaret trotted through the eerily silent streets of Milton. She approached the imposing gates of Marlborough Mill. The gates were closed, the mill silent; she wondered why. Margaret knew that most of Mr. Thornton's workers had returned to their posts.

She pulled the chain and heard the gong echo loudly in the empty courtyard. The gate opened a crack and Williams peaked out through the gap.

"Oh, it's you, miss," said Williams with relief. Margaret began to feel more uneasy. Who had he been expecting? Williams ushered her impatiently inside. He closed the gate with a bang.

"Did you see anyone in the street?" he demanded.

"No. That's very odd, isn't it? Where is everyone?"

"I think we'll know soon enough. Best get inside the house, miss, and bolt the door behind you," he insisted. Alarmed, Margaret picked up her pace and hurried to the front door of the manor. Williams pounded up the stairs to Mr. Thornton's office.

Margaret looked to the mill and almost jumped out of her skin.

Pale faces were staring back at her through the windows. Each person had an identical look of terror on their faces. She saw that the door to the loading docks had been padlocked shut. Why had the workers been locked in the mill?

Margaret rapped smartly on the front door and was quickly admitted. In the parlor, she found Fanny and Mrs. Thornton sitting together agitatedly.

"Mrs. Thornton. Whatever is going on? Where is everyone?"

"The strikers are planning on storming the mill. They heard somehow that John has brought in the Irish workers last night. John has gone to alert the soldiers," Mrs. Thornton told Margaret, a tinge of unease in her voice.

Margaret realized that it must have been the Irish workers she had seen in the mill; the regular employees having stayed home perhaps, once they had heard what the union was planning. Mr. Thornton had likely locked the Irish in to stop the strikers from getting to them. Margaret wished she had chosen a more appropriate moment to visit Mrs. Thornton; Mama wanting the recommendation of a physician from her, in preparation for the coming cold months. Unfortunately, she had not noticed the tension in the air until she had arrived at the mill.

She knew the strike was in full force, but she did not imagine anything like this could happen. Naïvely, she had thought the strikers would simply wait out their time in their homes, not march in the streets. This was like something out of the French Revolution. The storming of the Bastille. Margaret shook her head at her foolishness. Her nerves must be getting the better of her.

An almighty boom had all three women rushing to the windows. Mr. Thornton was running from the gates toward the house. He looked back briefly to check that they were still holding. An angry mob of workers banged forcibly against the gateway. The swell of rage grew louder. More rioters had arrived, their furious shouts adding to the commotion. Some even climbed up the gates, screaming abuse and taunts through the bars.

"Thornton! Thornton!"

"Push it down!"

"Get the Irish out!"

The mob was vicious now. They began to push as one against the heavy barricade. Mr. Thornton arrived, panting, behind the three women. He hastened to their side.

"They're coming! They're coming! They'll kill us all!" screeched Fanny, flapping her hands hysterically.

"Fanny, stop!" her mother hissed, her eyes betraying her own panic. "How soon can the soldiers be here?" she asked her son anxiously. Mr. Thornton looked down at his pocket watch then back to his mother. They traded a silent look of understanding. It would be close. Fanny gave a breathy little scream and half collapsed against her mother.

"Take her to the back rooms," Mr. Thornton demanded. He turned suddenly to Margaret, his eyes wild.

"Miss Hale, I am sorry you have visited us at this unfortunate moment," he told her breathlessly. The two of them spun to look out the windows again at the sound of a bone-jarring crash.

The mob had succeeded in breaking down the mill gates. They poured into the courtyard, their faces filled with rage.

"They're in there somewhere! Go on!"

"Go on, lads! We'll find 'em! It's not right!"

"I've a family to feed! Get the Irish out!"

Margaret's heart leapt to her throat. She knew some of these people. She'd cared for them in the hospital, chatted with them. But she knew that they were driven rabid with hunger and fuming at the injustice of their lot.

"My God, they're going for the mill door!" Mr. Thornton leant farther forward to see if the mob had torn down the door. Some of the workers spotted Mr. Thornton in the windows and began to hurl insults and threats. The mob surged into two groups, one beating against the mill door, the other screaming at Mr. Thornton.

"Let 'em yell," said Mr. Thornton resolutely. Perhaps he thought that the mill door would hold until the soldiers arrived. "Keep up your courage for a few minutes longer, Miss Hale."

"I'm not afraid!" insisted Margaret, a little untruthfully. "But can't you pacify them?"

"The soldiers will make them see reason."

"What kind of reason? Setting soldiers on them?" demanded Margaret. She was angered by his apparent lack of compassion. "Mr. Thornton, go down this instant and face your workers. Speak to them as if they were human beings! They're driven mad with hunger. Their children are starving. They don't know what they're doing. Go and save your innocent Irishmen!"

Mr. Thornton's mouth fell open slightly at her strong words. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then strode to the drawing room balcony.

"Mr. Thornton, take care!" she yelled.

Mr. Thornton threw open the doors to the balcony. The mob saw him appear and pitched towards him. Mr. Thornton stood with his arms crossed, staring down at the rioters below. He made no move to speak to them.

Margaret watched in horror as a few of the men bent to pick up rocks and cobblestones from the ground. Surely the did not mean to assault their master? She rushed out to the balcony and threw herself in front of Mr. Thornton. She could protect him. The workers would not want to hurt a woman.

"In God's name, stop! Think of what you're doing! He is only one man and you are many! Go home! The soldiers are coming!" she shouted to the crowd. Her appearance seemed to startle them. Their voices became quieter. Mr. Thornton calmly moved out from behind Margaret and stood beside her.

"Go in peace," said Margaret beseechingly. "You shall have an answer to your complaints."

"Will you send the Irish home?!"

"Never!" Mr. Thornton bellowed. The mob erupted with newfound violence. They began to scream insults and thundered toward the mill again.

"Go inside," Mr. Thornton ordered Margaret. She shook her head firmly. She needed to stay here to help him. She had pacified them before she might be able to do so again. If only he had not shouted at them.

"No, they will not want to hurt a woman. Let me help you!"

"Go inside or I will take you in!" he insisted, grasping her arm. Margaret took a step closer to him in an effort to turn him away from the mob. Maybe if she could get him to stand further back, the crowd would be more inclined to listen to her. Their fight was with him, not Margaret.

Suddenly, there was a shout, the sound of something whistling through the air. A heavy object stuck Margaret's temple.

Her vision went black.

.

.

.

John managed to catch Margaret before she hit the edge of the door. He lowered her gently down to the ground. The crowd fell into a horrified silence. John knelt over Margaret's unconscious form.

A pool of blood was beginning to form around her wound, dripping into her hair. His hand hovered over the injury, but he dared not touch it. An intense fury rose up inside him like bile.

He rose to face the crowd.

"Are you satisfied?!" he roared. "You came here for me so kill me if that's what you want!"

John stood with his arms outstretched, daring the mob to strike. Nobody moved. They were still too shocked by the sudden violence to make a sound. The silence was such that the clatter of approaching horses was easily heard. The soldiers had arrived. The mob came alive and began to scramble to get away from the men on horseback, who where beating at anyone they could reach.

John knelt down again and lifted Margaret into his arms. She was light and frighteningly limp. He took her inside and laid her gently on the sofa. Still, her eyes did not open. His hand floated lightly over her nose and mouth to check she was breathing.

"Margaret," he whispered in an agonizing tone. "Margaret, my darling, please wake up."

He tenderly pulled a few locks of her hair from the wound in an attempt to see the severity of it. It looked shallow enough, and her skull did not appear to be dented. But the amount of blood and her unconsciousness frightened him. He stood quickly and raced into the hallway to shout for his mother, accidently leaving bloody fingerprints on the doorframe.

"John, what's happened? Oh, my god," she breathed. She leaned over Margaret's insensible form, her eyes wide with shock.

"The men threw a rock and it struck Miss Hale. I cannot wake her up!" cried John anxiously.

"What was she doing on the balcony? Why was she outside at all?"

"She was trying to pacify them. She succeeded too, until I aggravated them. If I had not interfered…," John whispered.

"Never mind that now. The doctor must be fetched. I will stay with Miss Hale–"

"No, I will stay with her. Go down to Urquhart and send him for the doctor in the carriage." Mother mouth fell open at his frantic insistence. In his distress, he revealed to Mother what she had been fearing, what she had tried to forbid him from doing. She opened her mouth to reprimand him, then seemed to realize this was not the time for it. She spun on her heel and went to do as John bid.

John asked one of the maids for a bowl of water and a clean cloth. He gently pressed the wet cloth to Margaret's hair in an effort to loosen the congealed blood.

"Open your eyes, my love. Please. Everything will be alright. The doctor will be here soon. Margaret…"

John was hardly aware of what he was saying. The ground swirled beneath him and he struggled to stay up right. This should not have happened. Margaret should not have been on the balcony. The rock that had been thrown had been meant for him but she had flung herself in front of him to save him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… my darling…"

John had cleaned most of the blood away. The wound was fairly small, only a thin jagged cut that ran from the centre of her temple to just behind her ear. It seemed that she had been struck with the sharpest edge of the rock, not the flat surface of it. John did not know if that was better or worse for her condition.

Mother and Fanny came into the room. His mother, still looking at him with testiness, was carrying a fresh bowl of water and Fanny's smelling salts. Her dark expression faded to one of concerned as she took in Margaret's lack of consciousness. Fanny gave a shuddering breath. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth at the sight of the blood.

"Oh heavens! Is she dead?" gasped Fanny. "I heard Jane say that Miss Hale threw herself on you to save you, John!"

"She's _not_ dead," insisted John, a little hysterically.

"What a commotion! She's made it seem as though you couldn't defend yourself! What talk there will be–"

"Fanny, shut up!"

John looked anxiously at Margaret to see if his shout had awakened her, but she remained immobile. He looked pleadingly to his mother for assistance. Mother handed John the bottle she had brought with her.

"Here, this should jolt her awake," she said. John uncorked the bottle and waved it fervently underneath Margaret's nose. The moment it took to work was excruciating.

Margaret gasped awake and propelled herself into a sitting position. One hand went to her head, the other reached out blindly for something to hold on to. John hastily grabbed her hand to steady her.

"Mar – Miss Hale! Are you alright? Are you in pain?" John asked frantically.

"I – yes. What happened?" she asked. She was still gripping John's hand tightly. Her gaze skidded oddly about the room. She looked as though she was exceedingly dizzy.

"You suffered a blow. I brought you inside. The doctor has been fetched."

"Here he is now," said Mother looking out the window at the sound of the approaching carriage. The rioters had mostly been dispelled. A few had been caught and detained by the soldiers. They were huddled in a miserable group, their backs pressed against the stone wall.

John urged Margaret to lay back on the sofa. Fanny was snapping a fan open and shut, in between fanning herself frantically.

Mr. Donaldson came puffing into the drawing room. The portly man thunked to his knees beside John.

"Miss Hale. May I?" He indicated to her head. Margaret acquiesced, and the doctor began to prod the wound with his fingers. Margaret winced. John squeezed her hand lightly in reassurance.

"The cut is not deep. I'd say you were very lucky, Miss Hale," the physician told her. John gave a shaky sigh of relief.

"You will likely have a headache," Dr. Donaldson warned her. He looked briefly into her eyes and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "I think it would be best if you stayed here for the time being. Perhaps Mrs. Thornton could–"

"No. Please. I wish to go home. I do not want my parents to be alarmed," Margaret said softly.

"Miss Hale, I do not think that a wise course. You have suffered a severe injury," Mother insisted. John agreed. Margaret should not be subjected to the jolting carriage ride back to Crampton, especially through the crush of people that were still likely to be in the streets.

"Please, I feel quite well. I will be more comfortable at home." She looked imploringly at Mr. Donaldson. He considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Very well. I will escort you. Mrs. Thornton, if you would be so kind as to let us borrow the carriage once more?"

John wanted to protest this. Margaret should not be moved. He wanted her to stay here so that he could make sure of her recovery. Mr. Donaldson did not object to the plan, and hence Mother did not want to contradict the man. Left without allies, John was forced to let Margaret be escorted from the room and into the waiting carriage.

Margaret said very little. She still looked dazed and pale. John had to fight the impulse to draw her into his arms and hold her tightly. He still could not fathom that she had acted as she did to save him. This brilliant, fiery young woman threw herself in front of a crazed mob to keep him from harm.

.

Moments after Margaret and Dr. Donaldson left, the constable arrived in the yard. Hamper, Henderson, Slickson and a few other of the masters showed up as well. John was barely listening to what they were saying. He kept seeing Margaret's unconscious form on the balcony, feeling the weight of her in her arms.

"Mr. Thornton? Don't worry sir. We'll catch the ringleaders," said the constable confidently. John had no doubt they would. The union leaders had been shouting for weeks about the strike; they would not be hard to track down.

"Thornton's come up smilin' again," Henderson told Slickson. "Those hoodlums have broken the strike."

"Didn't even have to use his Irishmen!" replied Slickson in awe.

No, John did not have to use the Irishman. But at what cost? Margaret had been grievously hurt. John still felt the fluttering of panic in his stomach. He knew he must see Margaret this evening, to check on her. He would not be easy in his mind until he knew for certain that she had recovered fully.

"When we catch the instigators we'll hold them responsible for the damage; impose fines so that you can make the repairs," said the constable.

"No," John replied quietly. "I'll not press charges. The union men are well-known; they'll not get employment again in Milton. That's punishment enough."

"But, sir, surely–"

"I'll _not_ press charges against them." John insisted.

"What about against the man who threw the rock?" John looked at the constable in surprise. How had he known that? "I heard there was some violence, the hands were whispering about it after we rounded them up. They said the worker had struck a _woman_! Is that true?" asked the constable in shock.

"Yes," John growled, angry all over again. "The man struck Miss Hale." He would press charges against that despicable man, once he was found. The union would surely give him up, his actions had hurt the them too. Too late, John realized he probably should not have said who the lady was. Margaret should not have been at his house, it was unseemly. There'd be gossip now, no doubt. John could have kicked himself for his foolishness.

"Indeed," the constable said slowly. "Well, in any case, once the offender is caught, we will keep you abreast of the details."

.

Back inside, he was irritated to see that Fanny was now draped on the couch Margaret had occupied, being reluctantly fanned by a maid.

"Jane, have you nothing to be getting on with?" he asked the maid in annoyance.

"But Miss Fanny, sir, she..."

"I was so scared, John! Believe me, I almost fainted! I thought they would break down the door and murder us all!" screeched Fanny dramatically.

"Oh Fanny, don't be so ridiculous," snapped Mother. Now that the riot was over, Mother was back to being her usual sturdy self.

"You were in no danger, Fanny," said John crossly. Fanny gaped at him. He supposed he was being unfairly harsh with her. But he did think she was overreacting, especially when she was not who had been wounded.

John left the room and went to the entrance hall, Mother following him. He picked up his hat and gloves from the table. He wanted to leave now before it got to late to visit with Margaret.

"Where are you going?" asked Mother suspiciously.

"To see if Miss Hale is well."

"That is hardly necessary. You saw yourself she was well," insisted Mother. John nodded but did not pause in his task. He knew that, but he still wanted to check on her. He needed to see with his own eyes that she was alright.

"She was sent home in the carriage with Dr. Donaldson. Everything was done properly… John!" His mother's agitated exclamation stopped him in tracks. "I'm asking you not to go."

John stared at his mother incredulously. Surely her dislike of Margaret did not extend this far; refusing him to check on her wellbeing?

"I don't understand. Why do you dislike her so?"

"Because she is not worthy! She does not know what it takes, all the things that must be done to run this house and the mill… John, she is not suitable!" Mother was almost frantic now.

"Mother, how can you say that? I've told you what she's done. She is a far better person that you give her credit for!" John insisted. "She is good and kind. She is everything I am not. She can be my humanity, bring balance to my life."

What possible reason could Mother have for opposing the match? Margaret had shown herself to be everything John desired in a wife and more. She was inventive, resourceful and thoughtful. She was not afraid of hard work.

"She will be the end of your ambition!" Mother cried.

"No! She would never ask that of me. She had plans of her own, you heard her say as much herself. She will make me a better person. Even now, I can see that I've become less hostile towards others. Imagine all I could do if I had her love in its entirety!"

"And imagine how hard you would fall if she fails to give it! John! You are being irrational! You are turning away from everything we've worked so hard for! You are turning into–!"

Mother choked off the end of her sentence, but John heard the implication. That he was turning out to be his father. That he was becoming weak as he had been. His mother exhaled shakily.

"John. I am _telling_ you not to go."

John was torn. His mother did not actually have the authority to forbid him to do anything. As the man and head of the household, it was only his authority that mattered in society. And he would not be persuaded off Margaret by anything other than her own refusal. But he had not got to where he was in life by disregarding his mother's advice.

He needed to walk, clear his head. Perhaps it was better for him not go to Margaret tonight, not until he was sure what he would say to her.

"I'm leaving. I'll be back later. But I promise I'll not see her tonight." John left quickly, before Mother had a chance to protest further.

.

John's feet carried him to the cemetery. He was surprised. Was it because it was the site of their forgiveness? Where he had first held her hand? Or perhaps…

He rested his hand on the wrought iron gate, then gently pushed it open. John walked slowly, weaving though the many gravestones. His breath quickened the closer he got the north corner. He stopped in front of a stone marker. It sat flush with the ground; a few vines had creped over the top of it.

It was not as he remembered, not exactly. There was no snow on the ground, no overwhelming scent of soil. But most noticeably absent was John's feelings of despair. He knelt to the ground in reverence. He swept his hand across the carved letters of his father's name, brushing away the few leaves that had gathered there.

The marker was weathered but intact. It displayed nothing beyond his father's name, the dates of his birth and death, and the word _Beloved_. John had forgotten that. No doubt Mother had chosen it, a small word that encompassed decades of love and grief.

"I've missed you, Father. But you'd be proud, I think, of all I have done," John whispered. "Mother and Fanny are well; they always have been. I have been… less happy. I survived, but that's not the same as living, is it. I've been lonely… and angry. But now… I am finally beginning to heal. Because of Margaret. You would love her, I know. She's a beautiful person, inside and out. You'd give us your blessing if you could." John took a deep breath and stared for a moment at the setting sun.

"Being with her… it's reminded me what it is to feel again. I have never… I disliked who I became. What I was forced to become. But Margaret… I love her so much I've forgotten what the sadness even felt like." John swiped at the tears that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. He pressed his palm against the stone one more time, then stood to leave.

A weight had lifted from his shoulders; one he had been carrying with him for years. Kneeling there, he'd discovered that he was not angry at his father, only achingly sad. It had been a relief to speak the words aloud, to try and cleanse himself of his grief.

He wondered if his mother ever spoke to her husband in this way. She always seemed so steadfast and pragmatic that he couldn't imagine her doing so. It was likely she had worked though her sorrow privately and without lingering on it. Fanny had been very young and did not have the pain that went with the loss of her father. John however, was less resilient. He had been just the wrong age for such an event. Caught up in becoming a man, only to be thrust into the role in the worst way possible.

But now, on the cusp of every bit of happiness he'd ever wanted, John felt as though he could take on the world.

.

.

.

Margaret managed to sneak into the house without alerting her parents to her arrival. She tiptoed to the kitchen to retrieve some supplies, which she then carried up to her bedroom. Seating herself in front of her mirror, she examined the wound on her temple. The cut was small and only tiny beads of blood clung to it. She thought that odd, as she knew head wounds bled a lot. She wondered who had cleaned up the blood.

Margaret made a paste of garlic and honey to treat the cut and ward off corruption, patting the concoction gently onto the angry red line. She pulled some of her wispy curls forward so that her parents might not spot it during dinner. Still feeling a twinge of pain from the wound and slightly nauseated from her dizziness, Margaret drank a few cups of peppermint tea.

She could not believe the workers had behaved so. They had not meant to hit _her_ of course, but they still picked up rocks with the intent of hurling them at Mr. Thornton. She never thought that the presence of the Irish would cause that much anger in the workers. They had thought they had all the power, only to have it yanked out from under them by Mr. Thornton. It was a shrewd business move. The men had broken the strike on their own, after only two weeks.

Margaret wondered what would happen now. Surely the workers would be disillusioned with the union, failing so spectacularly as it did. The union members would most likely beg to be taken back by the mill owners, having achieved nothing but a loss of wages and a deeper fear of the masters, Mr. Thornton in particular.

The soldiers had been a mistake. Treating the workers like criminals was the wrong way to go about it, and was likely the cause of their unrest. She hoped Mr. Thornton would be reasonable in their punishment. They men did not deserve to starve, whatever their crime.

.

.

.

John padded carefully through the house. His efforts were wasted however, as he saw that Mother was still awake and sitting in the drawing room embroidering a screen. He knew she was using the pretense of work to avoid admitting to herself that she was waiting for him.

"Still up? I thought you'd be exhausted," he told her guardedly, their fight earlier still ringing in his ears.

"Why should I be?" she retorted. She was being deliberately contradictory. "Where have you been?"

"Just walking," he told her. He untied his cravat and loosened the buttons on his shirt.

" _Where_ have you been walking?"

"Mother, I promised you I would not go there and I did not."

"But?" she insisted, tense and waiting. John sighed. He raked his fingers through his hair. He pulled out the chair next to his mother and collapsed into it.

"You know I will have to go there tomorrow and you know what I will have to say," he told her heavily. He did not want to fight again. He need both his mother and Margaret in his life.

"Yes," she grumbled. "You could hardly do otherwise."

John furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are now bound to her in honor. She has shown her feelings for all the world to see."

"Her feelings?" John did not dare hope that Mother might have some insight into Margaret's mind.

"She rushed out in front of an angry mob and saved you from danger. Or are you telling me I imagined that?" Mother huffed.

"She did save me. But, Mother, I daren't believe such a woman could care for me," he whispered mournfully. That was his worst fear. That Miss Hale felt nothing for him beyond a polite fondness. He did not think he could live without her. It was agonizing to contemplate she might not feel the same way.

"What more proof do you need, that she should act in such a shameless and reckless way?" his mother scoffed. John frowned at that. He did not think Margaret's actions had been shameful. Indeed, he thought her brave and admired her all the more for her courage. Her bravery today had given John hope. Surely she wouldn't have acted as she did if she did not care for him.

John stood and made to walk away. He was achingly tired after the tempestuous day. Mother caught the sleeve of his coat and pulled him down towards her until he was kneeling beside her.

"A mother's love holds fast and forever. A girl's love is like… a puff of smoke. Changes with every wind. That is why I did not approve of your attachment to her. I could not bear to see you fall," she whispered. "You think I don't see that tormented look in your eye? It is the same one I saw in your father, during those last months…"

John sucked in a sharp breath. He had not wanted her to see. He had tried so hard to keep her in blissful ignorance, away from the pain and loneliness that had engulfed his life for so long. It had not occurred to him that his resilient mother might know exactly what he had been feeling.

"I asked you not to see her today because I wanted one last evening of being the first in your affections," Mother stated sadly.

"I can't remain silent. I _must_ ask her," John implored, willing his mother to understand.

"Yes, you must; she had forced you into the position most cunningly."

"She has not forced me into anything. I want to marry her; I have wanted that for months. I've tried to tell you this, but you would never listen to me," said John shortly.

"Well, it's done now. She has admitted herself to the world. I may yet even learn to like her for it," she said, a little insincerely. "If I must lose you to someone else, I suppose there are far worse woman you could have attached yourself to. There are far better ones though," she muttered.

"Mother," John groaned in irritation. "Is that all this is? You are not going to be lost to me. My love for her will not diminished the love I have for you or Fanny in any way."

"You love her?" asked his mother, slightly surprised.

" _Yes_. And I am going tomorrow to ask her to share her life with me. I am going to do it no matter what, but I would be glad of your blessing."

Mother pursed her lips, thinking for a few moments. "Very well. I still do not like her. But I will welcome her into our home, if that is what you wish."

John sighed. He had hoped for a better response, but supposed that was as good as he was going to get from his inflexible mother. If Margaret did agree to marry him, it was looking more and more as though she'd have a hard task ahead of her; getting her mother-in-law to warm up to her. John knew Margaret was more than equal to the task, but wished it did not have to be so.

.

.

.

His hand's were shaking. He tried in vain to swallow the lump in his throat. He hoped he would be able to get the words out. He didn't want there to be any misunderstandings.

He stood in the drawing room where he had spent so many joyful hours with Margaret. He was glad it had been the charity maid who'd answered the door. If it had been Dixon or even Caoimhe, he knew that they might have guessed what he was planning. It was not usual for a man to seek a private audience with a lady unless he was planning on proposing. Luckily, the young maid had thought nothing more of his request to bring Margaret to the room alone.

John heard the door open behind him and took a deep breath to compose himself before turning to face Margaret. He cataloged her expression, her gown, her eyes; taking in everything. He wanted to remember this moment perfectly.

Margaret smiled at him and greeted him cordially. He was too nervous to reply. He moved to close the door then turned slowly to face her. Margaret looked a little uneasy at that gesture. John hesitated, then decided to begin by explaining how he admired her actions yesterday, and inquire after her injury. He must ease into it, lest he find himself unable to form the words.

"Are you well, Miss Hale? Your injury?" His voice waivered. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, thank you. I feel much better."

John's gaze focused on her temple, then roved over her face. She did indeed look better than when he saw her last. Her eyes were clear and the wound looked to be nothing more than a small scrape. "Good. I am so glad to hear it." John took a deep breath. "Miss Hale, I'm afraid I was very ungrateful yesterday."

"You've nothing to be grateful for," she replied easily.

"I think that I do," disagreed John.

Margaret was confused by his contradiction. "Why, I did only the least that anyone would have."

John furrowed his brow in disbelief. "That cannot be true."

"Well, I was, after all, responsible for placing you in danger. I was the one who asked you to speak to your workers in that way. I would have done the same for any man there."

John was upset to hear her say so. He wanted her to say that it was due to affection for him, not a duty. "Any man? So you approve of that violence. You think I got what I deserved?" he demanded, his nerves making him sound more aggressive than he wished.

"No, of course not!" insisted Margaret. "But they were desperate. I know if you were to talk to them. But if you were to be reasonable–"

"Are you saying that I'm unreasonable?"

"–If you would talk with them and not set the soldiers on them. I – I know they would… be more responsive –"

"They will get what they deserve," he said brusquely. This was not going at all how he planned. He came closer to her and tried to lighten his tone. "Miss Hale, I didn't come here to thank you. I came because... I think it very likely... I know I've never found myself in this position before. It's difficult to find the words…" John almost groaned out loud at his ineptness.

He looked into her beautiful face and found courage. "Miss Hale, my feelings for you are very strong," he said softly.

Margaret's confused expression became one of even more bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said slowly.

"I wish to… your actions yesterday showed me that you might hold me in some… approval." This was so difficult! He could barely get the words out, stumbling over the declarations of love he had spoken so often in his mind.

Margaret expression cleared; she suddenly understood. John barely had a second to rejoice before her countenance transformed into one of fury.

"How _dare_ you?" she spat. "You think that because you are rich and – and – powerful that you can _order_ me to marry you? I suppose I should expect no less from someone in trade!"

Her words were like a knife in his gut. He knew it. He _knew_ she would be offended by his feelings. She though him completely beneath her, and she was right. He struggled to draw in a breath. His lungs felt as though they would explode.

"You assume that because I'm in trade I'm only capable of thinking in terms of buying and selling?!" He was almost breathless with hurt and shock. This could not be happening.

"I am not a possession! I will not be forced into marrying anyone, no matter how wealthy you are!"

John strode around the table towards her, desperate to make her understand him. He was almost crazed with pain.

"I don't want to possess you; I wish to marry you because I love you!"

Margaret's mouth fell open, aghast.

"What?" she gasped.

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*Author's Note: I wrote that the workers would turn out on the Friday, then later made it the first of November 1850. Thought I'd double check the calendar for accuracy and, bloody hell, I was actually CORRECT? How insane of a coincidence is that?

*Author's Note 2: I hope I was able to make John's commanding nature likeable. He is a product of his times, where men ruled and women followed. He was conditioned to be in charge from an earlier age than most, and his mother in particular groomed him to be unyielding. But, thanks to Margaret's rebukes, he's come to realize how domineering he can be, and dials it back. It'll crop up again and again, but Margaret's not one to take crap from people. Should be fun to see where that leads them!


	21. Chapter 19

*A/N: Thank you again for the amazing reviews. I apologise insincerely for the cliffhanger!

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Chapter 19

"Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sights; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes"

Mr. Thornton's declaration rang in her ears. Margaret had not been thinking of marriage. She had finally, _finally_ found a place that had come to mean so much to her. She was completely content. With her work, with her family. She was thrilled by what she had accomplished.

She had not a single romantic thought in her head. She had put such things aside. Left it in London along with all the other society things she had desperately wanted to leave behind. Mr. Thornton's blunt confession of love floored her.

He had never given any indication the he loved her. He had never shown her any feelings other than irritation that morphed into kindness and respect as the daughter of his friend. He was friendly, but not overtly. Certainly not enough to warrant any suspicion on her part that he might harbor an affection for her.

She had thought he'd come here today solely to make sure she was alright after her injury yesterday. She had thought he'd asked for privacy because he did not want to speak about the incident in front of parents, in case she had not told them. A tactfulness she had appreciated until now.

Suddenly, Margaret realized why he was doing this. It was not love at all. "You care nothing for me at all, you only want to restore my honor! I find it offensive that you imagine that I acted in a way deliberately to make you grateful to me! It offends me that you should speak to me as if it were your duty to rescue my reputation! Well, no thank you, Mr. Thornton! I have never sought your help in this matter and I do not do so now. You do not need to feel any obligation towards me!"

Mr. Thornton's expression cycled through several emotions; fury, shock, disbelief; but pain was most prevalent. His eyes hurt to look at. They were filled with such an expression of anguish that he looked as though he was being burnt alive. Margaret was quailed by that look. Perhaps she _was_ wrong.

"I spoke to you about my feelings because I love you! I had no thought for your reputation! I know that you were not trying to entrap me; I thought your actions were _brave_ , not shocking."

Mr. Thornton dragged his hands through his hair in frustration. He exhaled heavily. "My timing was unfortunate. I wanted to ask you immediately, so that you would not think that I was dishonorable. So that I might rescue you from any gossip about your behaviour towards me. But I did not think how it would appear to you, that I was only asking for your hand out of duty."

His voice softened and he reached for her imploringly. "Miss – Margaret, please believe me. I do love you. Most ardently. You have become so important to me in just the few months I have known you. I feel as though I have spent my entire life searching for you – exactly you. Everything about you has captivated me completely."

Margaret sat down heavily on the sofa. She could hardly take this in. She had never realized Mr. Thornton's attentions to her might be the romantic sort. She thought back to their many interactions. She remembered his intense stares, his occasional stuttered comments, his ceaseless questions. The way he had smiled after she shook his hand for the first time. It was so unlike anything Margaret had ever experienced before that she didn't even recognize it for what it was.

Mr. Thornton cautiously sat next to her, confused by her silence. She looked into his grave face and was utterly torn. She thought him a kind man, and an honorable one. She admired his accomplishments. But nor had she been thinking of romance.

"Mr. Thornton, I do not love you." She gripped his hand tightly when he gave a quiet keen of pain. "But I think I could," she breathed. "It would be so easy. It would be just like falling. Not loving you would be harder, I think. But I must ask that you give me time. I confess that I've not thought of courtship or anything like it since I came to Milton. It was simply another part of all the things I hated about London and I was glad to leave it there. All I ask is your patience, while I try to untangle all these feelings that you've welled up inside me."

"I can. I will," he gasped. "I will give you all the time you need, now that I have hope that you might one day return my feelings." He laced his fingers through her own. His gaze was skittering over her face, memorizing. He was smiling his beautiful smile again.

"It won't be 'one day'," she smiled shakily. "It will be soon. I'll not keep you waiting, whatever my answer. It would be unfair to you otherwise, Mr. Thornton."

"John," he told her. She repeated his name, and closed her eyes briefly in reverence at the intimacy. He shivered in response to that. He leant his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her, relishing to contact.

"Margaret." He said her name like a benediction, as though it contained all the things good and kind in the world. "Will you let me court you? I – I thought I already was, but I clearly was not communicative enough about it."

Margaret opened her eyes and drew back from him slightly to look into his joyful face. Had his expression always been so intense when he looked at her? She'd never noticed. "Yes… John. You may."

He smiled for a moment, before uneasiness clouded his features once more. "You… are not averse to someone like me… a tradesman–" he faltered over the word, "–wanting to marry you?"

Margaret shook her head adamantly. "No! No, that is not – that has never been an issue of mine. I said that because I was angry at your presumption, I thought you only wanted to marry because you thought it your duty to rescue me from myself. I am _thankful_ to find that is not the case."

His face broke into a smile, his expression one of quiet triumph. He leaned towards her hesitantly and pressed a chaste kiss on her lips. The barest hint of contact, and then he pulled away.

Margaret was shocked by the feeling that his touch invoked within her. It was a warmth, a comfort, a sense of rightness. They stared at each other, the action not uncomfortable.

"Can we… keep this between us for now?" she whispered. "Not that I am ashamed or any such thing. I only wish…"

"To not disappoint your parents if you decide against marriage," he finished. "I understand."

"Yes. Thank you. It would only be for a little while. I – I do not want to give a false answer. I want to be sure in my heart about my choice of husband."

"I am sure of you. That is all I have to say to weigh against all the rest. I love you deeply; of that you can be absolutely sure."

Margaret's heart stuttered to hear him say so again. She closed her eyes and held his hand tightly. "Thank you, John."

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John walked home as though floating on air. He had not secured Margaret's hand, but he'd gotten the next best thing – her consent to an understanding. Now all he had to do was convince her of his worth, that he would devote his life to her happiness.

He could see now why there had been miscommunication. He had been thinking of a wife and marriage, so his thoughts naturally went in the direction once he met Margaret. Because it was in his mind, he'd assumed that it was in hers as well, but Margaret hadn't been thinking that way. His heart had stopped when she told him she didn't love him, only to thump rapidly when she told him that loving him would be as easy as falling. That was his greatest wish – to have a relationship that was as easy and natural and _comforting_ as letting one's self fall.

"John."

His mother's voice cut into his blissful thoughts. He had been standing in the foyer of the manor grinning like an idiot.

"She has agreed I take it?" asked Mother shortly.

"No. We are not engaged yet. But we've agreed to an understanding. Miss Hale was taken by surprise by my feelings. She said she had no thought of marriage and so did not recognise my attentions for what they were. But she has agreed to give me a chance, Mother. I might be able to open her heart to me yet."

Mother looked puzzled by his explanation. "Didn't recognise it?" she echoed. "How could she not see it? You've spent almost every minute of your time in her company."

"As her father's pupil, not a suitor. And you and I know that I've been more unguarded, but she would not have known that. How could she?"

His mother sighed and nodded, recognising the point. "I suppose we must invite her family over for dinner, if not to formally acknowledge an engagement, to get to know them at least."

"Aye. But you must promise me that you will be obliging. Miss Hale is who I've chosen to marry. I'll not give her up, not even for you."

Mother made a slight face at his forceful words, but did not disagree with his command.

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Butterflies were fluttering in Margaret's stomach. She couldn't believe how nervous she was, given how Mr. Thornton – John – had stayed for tea quite often in the past.

He came into the drawing room with Papa, bestowing a wide smile on her. Had he always looked at her with such affection? How had she not noticed that? What else had she missed?

"How are you, Miss Hale?"

"Well. Thank you," she swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. It was her turn stutter her words. Papa looked a little mystified at their carefully polite exchange. Margret and John were uncharacteristically silent during tea. Margaret, normally so talkative, could think of nothing to say.

For the first time, Margaret's eyes had been opened to the possibility of John Thornton as a suitor, a lover; someone to spend her life with. To her surprise, she found the idea was not an abhorrent one. To think of him that way seemed to become as natural as breathing.

He did not look like the men she had known in London ballrooms. He was too dark and severe for such frivolity. But there was an attractiveness to him that she was able to see – now that she was thinking of him in such a way. His gaze was always focused and intent on whatever it was he was doing; the bright blue of his eyes at odds with his dark hair. He was tall and well-built, not a shadow of the poverty of his youth remained in his physique. He was careful and methodical, which showed in his appearance as well. He was always well dressed, each item of clothing painstakingly arranged, buttoned or folded. On him, the attention to his dress was not foppish; merely an extension of his seriousness and his sense of duty.

"Margaret, are you alright?" Papa asked her, unnerved by her scrutiny of John.

Margaret flushed. "Yes, I'm fine. I only wanted to ask J – Mr. Thornton about how the Irish workers were fairing," she said wildly, pulling the question from thin air to cover her odd behaviour.

"Ah, yes, indeed," said Papa, also turning to John. "We heard there the strikers came to the mill and that several arrests were made. I hope the damage was not extensive."

"No. Only the gates were broken and they are easily repaired," said John, looking towards Margaret with a faint air of inquiry.

Margaret shook her head at his silent question; confirming that she had not told her parents about what had happened in the riot and did not want him to either. He smiled reassuringly at her.

"The Irish have settled; I sent for Father Patrick to calm them down," continued John. "The workers are being housed at the mill until accommodation can be prepared. I have spoken with Mr. Peterson who owns many properties in Winslow about securing homes for the workers."

"Does that mean you will continue to employ them?" asked Margaret.

"Aye. I want to expand my operation. Once everything is in place, I'll be able to increase my workforce. I also met with the other masters and we decided not to hire back those who were heavily involved with the union. Some of the others have suffered severe losses as a result of the rule. Only a hundred hands of mine were turned away; most of the others lost double that."

Margaret was concerned. That was a lot of unemployed people, even for a city as large as Milton. "What will happen to those that were turned away?"

"They'll get work elsewhere. There are plenty of other places they can work with their skill set."

"Will the union help them?" asked Papa.

John looked grave. "I don't think so. The union has been all but dissolved by this setback. They broke their word; they incited a riot and used violence. But they did achieve their aim, somewhat. During the meeting, I told the other masters that changes must be made if we are to avoid another strike."

"Did you really just talk to them? Or did you threaten them?" teased Margaret.

"I may have been a bit forceful in my delivery," replied John in an amused voice.

"So you are expanding your operation! That must be an exciting time, and a busy one, no doubt," said Papa, also smiling at Margaret's mischievousness.

"Not frightfully busy," said John quickly, with a glance at Margaret. She smiled; he did not want her to think that his increased workload would cut into their time together. "I have already drawn up most of the plans. I also hope, Miss Hale, that you will help me in this endeavor. You have already proven that you think compassionately about the workers. I would like your input."

"Of course, Mr. Thornton. I'd be more than willing to help," said Margaret enthusiastically, her mind already filling with ideas and questions.

John grinned in satisfaction at her excitement.

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Later, Margaret followed John to the front door as he prepared to leave, wanting to have a few moments alone with him.

"I am so happy to hear you will be employing the Irish workers. You have given them a chance to rebuild their lives again," said Margaret softly.

"And I, in turn, am glad to have pleased you," John replied warmly. "Continuing that line of thought, I also wish to tell you that I won't be pressing charges against any of the rioters." His expression hardened suddenly. "Only against the man who threw the rock."

"No, please, don't do that," she said quickly. "I am fine, John. I suffered no ill effects."

"Aye, and I am so glad of it. But the man must still be punished. It is not because you are the one he struck; I'd still prosecute no matter who it was. It was a violent and illegal act; I cannot let it pass," he said solemnly, lifting his hand tentatively to the half-healed cut on her temple.

Margaret sighed. She did not completely believe his explanation; if he had been the one hurt, she thought it unlikely that he would prosecute. But what the man had done _had_ been illegal, and John was a magistrate; he had to follow the letter of the law.

She realized that John still held his hand to her face. She reached up to cover it with her own, eliciting a smile from him.

"Will you stay again tomorrow evening?" she asked hesitantly, wanting to explore their new relationship some more.

"Of course," he replied warmly. "I will visit you whenever you wish."


	22. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts to courtship and such fair ostents of love"

His courtship with Margaret progressed slowly over December. She was a careful person, not given to rash decisions, much like himself. She wanted to be sure of her feelings for him. John did not mind her hesitancy in the least. He respected her all the more for it. After all, it had taken John a long time to be sure of his feelings; Margaret would be the same. He was also not offended by her request to stay silent about it for now. He knew that women had more to lose if an engagement was broken off and so must be completely sure before entering into one.

Because their engagement was not an official one yet, he and Margaret were not able to spend any time alone together; so the only time they were able to meet was when he visited her father. These visits were a bit more awkward than they were before, now that they were both so aware of each other. John had to keep reminding himself to call her Miss Hale; a difficult task, as she had been Margaret to him for so long now.

He was also pleased to note that, despite the awkwardness on her part, Margaret still spoke her mind. She did not dance around her feelings, she told him exactly what she was thinking. That was refreshing after dealing with his mother's tight-lipped queries, or Fanny's coy delivery.

He had spent the past few weeks finalizing his plans for expanding production. He'd need over three hundred extra machines to meet the new quota he'd set for himself. Prince Albert's Exhibition was set for next summer and Milton cotton was a large part of the exhibit. John knew that once Londoners saw that, orders would come flooding in for cotton cloth. John wanted to be prepared and be the first in Milton ready to meet the influx of orders. He'd be able to staff the new machines with Irish workers, which would please Margaret, and allow him to help the impoverished people. There was an old tenement building close to the mill; rather derelict at present but if he bought it, it could be spruced up to give the Irish a place to live. They were housed in Winslow at the moment and incredibly crowded there, but John had promised them that it was temporary.

The mess hall had begun, and was working very well so far. He and Williams had received many positive comments about it from the workers.

There was some animosity between the Irish and the English hands. Williams and the superintendents had been ridiculously forced into the role of schoolmasters; having to reprimand grown adults for petty or downright derogatory comments. John had announced severely that any brawls or arguments between the groups would result in instant dismissal for both participants, regardless of fault. That had quietened them down somewhat.

During a visit with Margaret, he told her about the issues and stated that he was considering separating the two groups for his new expansion, using the Irish to staff the new machines entirely.

"I don't think that will be effective," said Margaret, wrinkling her nose. "It'll only reinforce their differences. I know you want to keep the peace and keep production running smoothly, but if you make them work together, the animosity will disappear much more quickly."

"That's true, I had not considered that. I did not really want to separate them, as the Irish are less trained and I didn't want to staff the new areas exclusively with inexperienced workers."

"Will the new machines fit in the mill or are you planning on expanding the building?" asked Mr. Hale.

"Both. The machines are fairly spread out now; more can be add without undo harm. Construction for new storage sheds for the raw cotton and finished product is going to begin next week. That will free up the current rooms. With a bit of maneuvering, all the new machines should fit comfortably."

"How many machines are you going to purchase?" asked Margaret, surprised that so much space was needed.

"Three hundred weaving machines, plus at least fifty others; extra spinning mules, carding machines and suchlike."

"Goodness! That's a far grander scale than I thought you were planning. Is there demand enough for that much cotton cloth?"

"Not quite yet, but the Great Exhibition is soon. Once all of London sees how profitable cotton is, we will be flooded with orders. I want to be one of the first ready to meet the demand; I will be able to secure more contracts if I am able to offer suppliers their orders faster and cheaper than other mills," he explained.

Margaret stared at him in awe. "Using the Exhibition as fuel for your trade, what a shrewd idea! You are a cunning businessman, Mr. Thornton. I knew that in theory, of course; your mill could not be as prosperous as it is if you were not skilled at your craft. But listening to you talk about your plans, I am gratified to see how quickly your mind works in these matters."

John longed to take her hand in appreciation. Instead, he had to settle for telling her, "High praise indeed. Thank you, Miss Hale."

Margaret understood his wish; she smiled comfortingly at him. His heart skipped a beat. He was sure she was thinking frequently about his suitability as her husband. Her constant smiles and praise made him sure that she her option was almost firmly set in the direction of her agreement.

Mr. Hale was usually oblivious to the finer points of his surroundings, but he had been giving John and Margaret increasingly perplexed looks lately, and did so again now when the pair stared happily at each other.

John cleared his throat and said, "How are you plans for the tenement coming along?"

He had given Margaret the plans for the building, and explained that it was structurally sound, only needing repairs to the brick facade and to have a plumbing system installed. He then gave her free reign to design the apartments however she wished, wanting to see what she would come up with.

"Very well; it's been great fun!" Margaret reached for some papers and spread them out on the table for him to see. "I've visited several shops around Milton and I've come up with a list of prices for the renovations." She showed him a sample of paint in a warm brown shade. "I think the hallways, kitchens and bathrooms should be painted in this colour; it's practical, but friendly as well. The rest of the rooms could be papered to the taste of the occupants; I've five styles for them to choose from, all of which will cost the same to install. I can ask them to make their selection when they put their name down for the flat. It might help them to feel more at home, if they have some control over their new residence."

"I'm surprised, Margaret, that you have chosen so," said Mr. Hale as he examined the styles. "These are nothing like colours used in London."

Margaret smiled. "That's the point. I want them to reflect Milton."

"I had not realized your enjoyment of Milton had stretched this far. Do you truly think of it as home now?" asked Mr. Hale.

"I do," replied Margaret happily. "I'll admit that when I first came here, I was dismayed by how utilitarian everything looked. Everything was built for industry, not comfort. Which is still true, but I see it differently now. You have helped me to see it differently, Mr. Thornton," she said, smiling warmly at him. "It is the thought of industry that the city conjures up that has become comforting to me. In the South, everything reminds me of leisure, a slow pace. I always felt so frustrated there. Here, in the ever-changing North, I have a purpose and a channel for my energy. I am driven."

"Does Milton please you? Truly?" asked John softly, eyes burning into hers.

"Yes, it does indeed." Margaret had understood his double meaning – she was telling him that she was pleased by him as well.

Mr. Hale was not so oblivious as to miss their charged exchange, and John's wide grin in response to Margaret's bright smile. He eyed John suspiciously but did not speak. No doubt he was going to wait until John himself brought it up; which he would, as soon as Margaret gave him consent to do so.

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Margaret had thought of almost nothing but John for weeks. She noticed was that he was not nearly as expressionless as she had first thought him; he was just subtler than she was used to. She catalogued each of his expressions in her mind. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, but when he was truly happy, his whole face lit up with laughter. A frown was his natural expression, but it didn't mean he was always displeased. Usually he was concentrating or thinking hard about something.

His voice was shockingly seductive; and it was just as clear that he had no idea the effect he had on people. He spoke honestly, always. He never danced around what he was thinking and never tried to hide his meaning behind annoying quips. His presence was refreshingly comforting to her. Margaret had not realized it before, but she had never felt wrong-footed in his company, as she did in with other people.

John was clever, and liked many of the same things she did. Margaret was confident that they would be compatible as a couple. He had already shown that he wanted her as a partner, not just a wife, and that he would joyfully share his life – and his business – with her.

The only thing stopping her was that she wanted to be sure of herself. She did not want to marry a man she didn't love, even if he was clever and kind and had told her he loved her. She had never been in love before and didn't know what to look for. John's presence caused her heart to beat wildly and a warmth to spread through her bones. But that could just as easily be attraction, couldn't it? She had admitted to herself that she found him very handsome, but that wasn't enough to base her entire life on.

Talking together alone in the drawing room after dinner one night, Margaret asked Fred if he'd ever been in love, but he told her that he'd never thought much about it.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you in love? With that Thornton fellow?"

Fred regarded her shrewdly. He'd seen how she and John had been interacting these past few weeks. He'd probably guessed John's feelings ages ago, before Margaret had.

Margaret blushed. "I don't know. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. Edith said when she saw Charles, she just knew instantly. Like a spark going off in her mind."

Fred snorted. "That's because Edith has never put more than two seconds of thought into anything."

"But I still haven't felt that spark," she persisted. "Even novels say that's what you're supposed to feel. I definitely feel _something_ , but I don't know if it's attraction or appreciation that he's been paying attention to me… or if I really like him."

"Well, that's easy enough to decipher," replied Fred. He pulled a piece of stationary towards the two of them and picked up a pen; he drew a line down the centre of the page, and wrote 'Pro' in one column and 'Con' in the other.

"I'm not going to pick him apart like that," cried Margaret. "It would be most unfair."

"How else are you going to decide?" asked Fred reasonably. "You said you've no idea what you're feeling."

"But this is so unkind!" she protested. "And he'd never do so to me."

"I'm sure he's well aware of his faults already; besides, it's not like he's going to see it." Fred poised his pen in the 'Pro' column and said, "You find him attractive, that's a good thing. He's quite rich too."

"I don't want to marry him because of his wealth–"

"Well, it's certainly not a con. Only if he spends wildly, and it doesn't seem so." Fred looked at her expectantly, wanting her to add more.

Margaret huffed, exasperated. She thought for a few moments, then said, "He's hard-working… clever. His interests are the same as mine. He's serious."

"I don't think that's a pro," interrupted Fred. "You'd never be able to have an amusing conversation with him."

"That's not true! I've enjoyed all the conversations I've had with him. And I prefer scholarly men."

"If you say so," replied Fred. "Come on, tell me some more."

"He's honest. He never censures himself because I'm a woman, he still says what's on his mind. He values my opinions, and he always wants to know what I think. He's kind, and careful, and impassioned by everything he does–" She stopped, cheeks heating.

Fred grinned at her. "I think we can all see where this activity is leading you. Let's do the cons now, balance it out."

"I –," she spluttered, the change in subject flustering her. "He has a temper."

"Towards you?" asked Fred, momentarily alarmed.

"No, not like that. He's been angry at me before, but I've been able to hold my own. And he stopped when he saw he upset me. But… I also know that he can be very harsh with his employees."

"Ah. But you'll likely not find a man who isn't, not if he wants to be successful. Does he have any bad habits? Does he smoke, gamble, drink?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, not excessively."

"Well, come on, think of something. We can't leave it blank."

"… I think he could be very unforgiving. He doesn't really care about social propriety; if someone did something to displease him, he'd cut them out without question."

"Hmm, that doesn't bode well, if you do something to upset him. Is he a reasonable sort?"

"Yes… but not unconditionally. It would take some convincing for him to change his view on something."

"So we can add stubborn as well," said Fred, writing it down. "We also ought to add the fact that he's not a member of the gentry."

"That's not a con," Margaret protested. "I don't care about that."

"Father will. Or maybe not," he amended at her look of disbelief. "But mother will, certainly. Her grandfather was a baron; she cares more about this kind of stuff. And so will her side of the family. Can you imagine Aunt Shaw's face if you tell her you're going to be married to a man who makes cloth?"

"I don't care what they think," asserted Margaret. "If I want to marry him, I will. I'll not refuse someone because of some silly thing like that."

"You might have to re-think your views when they cut you from the family. Many other girls have had their hearts stolen by unsuitable men and lost everything as a result," he told her warningly.

"But he's not unsuitable! He's far richer than us; almost as rich as Edith's husband, and the Shaws approved that match quick enough."

"You know it's got nothing to do with wealth. It was because the Captain is the son of Lord Whatshisname. My point is, if you agree, society will know you're marrying beneath you –," he held up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest, "– even if you never feel that way."

"But everything is changing now, Fred. The world is changing every day with all these new inventions and ways to make money. Class won't matter so much anymore," said Margaret.

"It's not changing that fast. And it might not matter to the lower types, but class will always be an issue for us uppers, whether you like it or not."

"Edith wouldn't cut me out. And if she won't, Aunt Shaw will come around eventually."

"Have you told Edith about your feelings yet?" asked Fred craftily, already knowing the answer.

"No, but not because I'm ashamed; it's because our engagement is not an official one –"

"He's already asked you? I thought we were just speaking hypothetically, to help you decide what you think of him!" exclaimed Fred.

Margaret was chagrined that she'd revealed herself. "He did ask me. Last month, after I was hurt in the riot. He said that he loved me, but I had not thought of him that way before; I told him I'd have to think about it."

"He asked you to marry him after you threw yourself in front of him to protect him? Maybe he doesn't love you at all, he's just honor bound. All of this is moot, then."

"No! That's what I thought at first, but he explained himself to me, and I believe him completely. He is honorable, but he also wanted to ask me for weeks before that," said Margaret in a rush, wanting to explain.

"Hmph, fine. I'd guess you'd know." Fred put down the pen and counted up the results of their discussion. "Twelve pros and three cons. And given your passionate defense of his faults, I think we can see where your heart lies," he grinned. "And if it's any help at all, I think he's the right sort for you. He'd be able to take care of you without chipping away at your spirit. You could do far worse than him."

Margaret gaped at her brother. Was it really as easy as that? Did she love John now?

Fred saw the look on her face and snickered. "I think you're going about it all wrong, Maggie. It's not supposed ding into your thoughts all of a sudden. All you need to think about is that you like being with him, and that it upsets you when he leaves. It's that simple."

Later that night, unable to sleep, Margaret thought ceaselessly over Fred's words. She also took care to burn the page, stoking up the fire until every last piece had been reduced to ash. She still felt uncomfortable with the task, even knowing where it had lead her. Margaret did feel an ache when John left her. She probed this further by imagining herself refusing him and never being able to see him again. No more debates, not more smiles. She'd never get the chance to feel his lips on hers again. The ache intensified until she could scarcely breathe.

Perhaps she did love John. But if she did, she couldn't accept him just yet. Fred's point about marrying beneath her had also stuck with Margaret. She didn't think she was at all, but, reflecting on Fred's words, Mama and Aunt Shaw certainly would. Margaret wasn't sure what Edith would think. She'd want Margaret to be happy, but might also dislike having a manufacturer as a relative and what threat it might pose to her status in London. Margaret was unsure of Edith's views, despite how close they were, simply because class had never really come up between them. Edith had gossiped over a few scandalous elopements and similar marriages as the one Margaret was contemplating, but hadn't said anything in particular about the impropriety of the person marrying outside their social class.

If she was cut from the family, she wondered what would happen. Mama would be upset, but wouldn't keep away forever, especially once Margaret had children. Aunt Shaw might, but Margaret reasoned that it wouldn't impact her daily life. If Edith did… that would be heartbreaking. Edith was practically a sister to her.

She decided that if she did accept John, and if her family did cut her, she'd make sure to explain her reasons and stress John's good character. She'd leave the lines of communication open on her end, but if they were determined, she wouldn't push the matter. John was more important than appeasing her extended family.

.

.

.

John was drawn from the gangplank to his office by the sound of someone rummaging through his desk.

He didn't know whether to be reassured or even angrier when he saw that the culprit was Fred Hale. Hale was sitting in John's chair, his feet on the desk, flicking though a book.

John stood in the doorway, astounded at his brazenness.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Fred looked up and grinned widely. "Ello! Don't mind me, I'm just having a look."

"I do mind! How did you even get in–"

"Are these all your financial dealings for this year?" Hale interrupted, raising the ledger he held open in his hand.

"I can't believe you! You broke into my office to go though my finances?" exclaimed John angrily.

Hale was undaunted. "Not just that. I've been looking for other stuff too. Things you might have hidden; secrets you don't want anyone to know…"

"What the hell gave you that right? Get out, man."

"I've got it on good authority that you've got designs on my sister."

"I don't want to ruin her, I want to _marry_ her," John growled.

"Exactly. Ergo, my presence here today," he smirked. "I must say, Thornton, you're wealthier than everyone thinks. You've invested your money well, and you don't spend like a cad. And I've been through all your things; if you had a secret life, I'd have found it by now. I did consider looking in your house, but you're much more the type to keep your sins here, away from your family. No skeletons in your closet, as far as I can see."

"I could have told you that myself, if you'd had the decency to ask beforehand," John spat. He knew he promised himself he'd not be vexed by her brother for Margaret's sake, but he was seriously considering abandoning his resolution and pitching the oaf out the window.

" _Aye_. I could have. But we both know that men rarely tell the truth. Particularly about their vices. We are men of action," Hale sneered. "Words would have been useless."

"The only action I want you to start doing is to get yourself out of that chair and out of my office. I don't care that you're Margaret's brother, this is beyond offensive."

Hale raised his eyebrow at John speaking Margaret's name. He dumped the ledger back on the desk and stood up. "Alright, straight to the point then; you're a direct fellow. I'll not speak for Margaret, but I'll say that she seems to care for you a lot. So, what I want to know is; do you love her?"

John scowled. "That's none of your business."

"It certainly is!" retorted Hale. "She's my sister and I don't want anything bad to happen to her. Or live a live without love."

"Then we have the same goal," said John in a clipped tone.

.

.

.

"Fred? What are you doing here?" asked Margaret confusedly. John and her brother were staring daggers at each other in John's office. Fred, oddly, was the one standing behind the desk, while John glared at him, looking as though he wanted to hit him.

John spun to face her, his anger draining away instantly. "Ma – Miss Hale."

"What am I doing here?" retorted Fred, smirking at her. "A better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

Margaret flushed. She knew it was improper of her to visit John, as they had not agreed business commission – the only acceptable reason for a single woman to visit a man. She did have a flimsy purpose; wanting to see that her dust masks were still effective for the workers, even through the winter. But it most certainty did not merit a visit in person with him; she could have asked the workers in the courtyard. But she had just wanted to see John again, after her revelations the other night.

Margaret didn't answer; she knew Fred wouldn't care about that kind of thing anyway. She took in the mess of the usually immaculate office, and her brother's stance behind John's desk. "Fred… have you been snooping in here?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

"Nope, just having a bit of a look. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh, lord," gasped Margaret, knowing exactly what Fred had been doing. He'd been looking for information on John after their conversation. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Thornton, Fred and I will be leaving this instant. I apologize profusely for the intrusion; he didn't mean–"

"Yes, I did –"

"You don't have to leave, Margaret."

"Excuse me, master?"

"Christ, what now?" barked John. He twisted back to the door where Williams was standing nervously, an even more anxious man standing behind him.

"Sorry t' disturb you, master. Only, this man is all flusterin' tryin' to tell me something, and I can't make neither head nor tails o' his accent," explained Williams fretfully.

John sighed heavily. "Go on, then. What's the problem?"

The second man was thrust into the room by Williams. He took off his cap and began to explain what the issue was. It was soon clear why Williams claimed his accent hard to understand; the man was not speaking English at all, but Gaelic.

"He says the machine is broken," said Margaret. Three sets of eyes turned towards her in disbelief.

"You can understand him?" asked John, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, somewhat. He's speaking Gaelic. I'm not fluent, but I can understand what he's trying to say." She turned back to the man. She didn't know the Gaelic word for 'continue'.

" _Speak_?" she tried instead. The mans eyes lit up in recognition and he repeated himself again, slower this time. Some of the words were familiar.

"Something is stuck in the machine on the end… something small. He doesn't know how to fix it," she translated.

The five of them traipsed down to the machine the man indicated; Margaret to translate and Fred because he loved to be in the thick of things. Williams and John began to pull the weaving machine apart, finding a piece of torn clothing clogging the mechanism. The man examined his clothing, finding a rip in his coat. His face went white and he spoke again, quicker this time. Margaret couldn't understand these words, but there was no mistaking his contrite tone.

"It's no matter, the machine's not too damaged. You were lucky. Take more care in future," said John shortly.

Margaret didn't know how to translate this either. She bit her lip and said, " _Be careful,_ " trying to put as much feeling into the words as she could, in an effort to convey what was lost.

"Where did you learn to speak that heathen tongue?" joked Fred.

Margaret frowned at him, not in the mood for his quips. "Caoimhe has been teaching me."

She gave John an apologetic look and pulled Fred aside. "I can't believe you," she whispered furiously. "What on earth processed you to rummage though someone else's things?"

"You said you didn't know if he had a vice or not. So I looked for you. Now I've saved you the trouble of finding out on your wedding day," replied Fred smugly.

"Nothing has been agreed to yet, you dolt! And it might not now! John will be very angry that you've done this. What if he think's it was me who put you up to it? Did you think of that?"

"You did put me up to it. It was your statement that made me think of it."

"I didn't mean you should break into his office! Remind me never to tell you anything again," hissed Margaret. "Now, go home, please. I am going to try and talk to John and apologize for your idiocy."

"He won't care. He'd forgive you anything, I saw that the second you walked into the room. And anyway, if he does chuck you over this, you'll be well rid of him."

"Go, Fred!"

Fred grumbled and left, saluting John sarcastically as he did so. Margaret blew out a breath angrily. Damn that Fred! Not content with ruining his own life, he likely just caused a great deal of trouble for her as well. She walked back to John's office, motioning him to follow her. If this was going to turn into a row, she didn't want it to be in the open.

Once inside, she began hastily tidying the clutter Fred had left on the desk; stacking papers and righting the upended inkwell.

"Margaret, stop; don't worry about it," soothed John, stilling her hands.

"I'm so sorry," said Margaret, distressed. "I did talk to him but I never imagined – It was not my suggestion that he come here – or that you were hiding something–"

"I know. Everything is fine. I'm not offended." She gave him a disbelieving look. "I'm not offended anymore," he amended, smiling slightly. "I understand his reasoning. I'd look into the affairs of anyone who wanted to marry my sister too. Only not so indiscreetly," he grinned.

"Papa will be angry when he hears what Fred's done."

"Not for very long, or too intensely."

"No," said Margaret sadly. "Not enough to stop him from doing this kind of thing again."

John took her hand gently. "May I ask what you spoke to your brother about?"

"I – foolishly as it turns out – thought that he might have some insight into… how to think about all this. A male perspective, perhaps," she said apologetically.

"He was not helpful?" He was tense, watching her very carefully to judge her response.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I think I know what my answer will be, but he also reminded me of some things and… I haven't made up my mind quite yet. I know that sounds as though I'm trying to be coy, but I'm not, I promise. I don't want to rush into anything, change my life… before… before I'm ready…"

Margaret trailed off. During her speech, John had shifted closer to her and took her other hand in his. He was staring at her lovingly.

"I don't want you to change your life, Margaret. I want us to combine our lives. I want us to work together in the mill, and you can continue doing as you are now; your hospital work and your work with the children. I want to add to your life, not diminish it."

Margaret sighed, relieved. She hadn't been worried about that, not exactly. But she had been thinking more about how her life would change. She did want some new things, like having a devoted husband by her side; who would be a companion and a lover. But she also wanted to keep the things she enjoyed.

"Thank you for telling me that," she smiled, squeezing his hands lightly. "That is what I want. If I do get married, I want to _join_ my husband's life, not merely sit along side of it."

"And is it my life you want to join?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I – I don't know yet. But I will, soon."

John nodded dazedly. He closed the distance between them and kissed her gently. His lips were warm and dry. And comforting; Margaret all but melting into him. After a moment, she stepped back, but kept her hands in his. "What if I promised to give you my answer by the New Year?" she said.

"Aye, I can wait 'till then. I would wait for you forever," he vowed, his eyes light with happiness.

.

.

.

After dinner that evening, John asked his mother to stay in the drawing room for a while, so that he could speak to her about Margaret.

"Has she agreed?" asked Mother.

"No, not yet. But she told me today that she thinks she knows what her answer will be. I think that means that she does wish to accept, but is thinking on the obstacles that might stand in her way. I wanted to ask you about what they might be, and how I can… reassure her," he told her, a little apprehensive. He didn't want to start another row.

But he did desperately need his mother's advice; he felt as though he had been pulled taunt all day with the stress and anticipation, Margaret's beautiful words rolling over and over in his mind. She'd been affectionate, and showed up unannounced to see him. She'd also helped him with a problem without a second thought. Surely they were good signs; showed that they were a good match for each other. And she had let him kiss her again. He could still feel the warmth of her lips on his and had to resist the urge to keep brushing his fingers against his mouth.

Mother sighed and rubbed her tired eyes. "You might not want to hear what I think, John."

"Aye, I do. Please. I struggled all though our earlier courtship and my ineptness almost cost me my relationship with her. I don't want to make the same mistake again."

"I suppose I was partly to blame for that. You came to me for advice and I didn't give it." Mother huffed down onto the sofa with far less grace than he'd seen before. She deliberated for a few moments then sighed again. "Very well. There's not point in my arguing over this anymore. I can see how determined you are."

"I am," replied John, taking the seat opposite her and leaning his elbows on his knees. "I love her with all of my heart. I didn't know I could feel this way, until I met her."

Mother raised her eyebrows at his candid words. She smiled slightly at him, happy at her son's joy. "I will confess that Miss Hale impressed me against my will. She seems to be a person of integrity and intelligence. I denied it for a long time. I wanted to believe that it was only a passing fancy of yours. That you had been drawn in by a pretty girl, as much as I knew that not to be in your nature. But I can see now why you have chosen her. She's a hard worker and has many good ideas for the mill. She'd been an asset for your business, rather than a burden on your finances."

John rolled his eyes to hear his mother's pragmatic view. "But what of the reasons for her caution? She wants to be sure of her feelings, and I don't mind that. But she must also be thinking about other things… I want to know what they are, so I can make myself clearer if need be."

Mother hesitated, which worried John. What could she possibly think was too terrible to tell him? "… She'll be thinking on her family, most likely. Will her family accept you as her husband? Will her father allow the match?"

"I've not asked Mr. Hale's permission yet. But I don't think he'd refuse it. He's not one for dictating to his children."

"Not in ordinary matters, perhaps, but this is a huge decision, John. Miss Hale seems to be more of a prop in the household, given how little her mother does. Her parents may suffer practically, as well as emotionally, if she were to leave."

"But that's completely unfair on her! She can't be happy because her parents need her to do _chores_?" cried John incredulously.

"Not just that. She may have an annuity settled on her, by that rich Aunt of hers. I've often wondered how they've been making ends meet, even with their frugal lifestyle. If she leaves her father's house, that money will go to her husband instead."

"If that's true, I could offer them a sum for their upkeep. It wouldn't be a large expense."

"No, but they might not accept it. Mrs. Hale in particular seems to be a proud person. And that's another thing. All this may be for naught, if they do not accept you because of our class," said Mother, her mouth twisting in dislike.

"Margaret doesn't care about that; I asked her directly. And Mr. Hale has never given me the impression that he was bothered by such things. He won't refuse based on class, or Margaret would have said as much already."

"I think it unlikely the resistance will come from either of _them_. I've not had much to do with Mrs. Hale – which in itself may speak volumes – but she's a gentlewoman to her core. She may threaten to cut Miss Hale from the family if she agrees to a match she thought undesirable."

John felt his heart sink. Margaret loved her family dearly and wouldn't want to do anything to upset them. "Do you think it true, Mother" he whispered. "Would she really do that to her own daughter?"

Mother exhaled heavily and gave him a pitying look. "John, your romance is not a new one. History is littered with stories exactly like this; a gentlewoman running off with an unsuitable man in a fit of passion, only to find love did not last, and that her life was only made that much harder by her trying to defy convention."

"That's… I wouldn't…," he stammered, unable to find the words. He couldn't believe this. They might both love each other and agree to marriage, only to be thwart by obscure and outdated social conventions?!

"This is different!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "I _can_ take care of her. When I go to Mr. Hale, I will _show_ him that! I will show him that I have enough money to look after Margaret; that she will never want for anything!"

"It's not always about money. If she does this, society will be closed to her. Her family and friends in London might not receive her. She won't be allowed back at court, and any children you have will not be eligible to be presented at court either. Miss Hale would be barred from a world that she has known her entire life."

John sagged back down to the sofa beside his mother, unable to dispute those facts. He might be rich, but he could never give Margaret that kind of life. He moaned in anguish at the thought. John had imagined love to be their only obstacle, and once they were sure of each other, they could conquer anything. But now he could see that wasn't true.

Mother gripped his hand in a rare display of affection. "I'm sorry to be so harsh, but that's the truth of the matter. Miss Hale will be giving up far more than you will. And not just for herself, but for her future children as well. It… is my opinion, that that's the reason for her caution. She wants to be sure of her feelings, yes, but she also wants to think about all that she will be leaving behind."

John's head jerked up. His mother's words reminded him of what Margaret had told him the day he proposed: ' _I confess that I've not thought of courtship or anything like it since I came to Milton. It was simply another part of all the things I hated about London and I was glad to leave it there_.'

"She doesn't care about that, Mother!" he gasped. "She told me so. The day I proposed, she told me. She said that she hated all those things about London and was happy to have left!" John turned excitedly to his mother. She started slightly, bemused by his sudden elation. "Margaret doesn't care about court or London or any of it. She _is_ only thinking on her feelings!"

"Well, if that's true, then it will be one less thing in your way. But she may still have issues with her immediate family," Mother warned him.

"I'll prove it to them," replied John firmly. "I'll prove to the Hales that I'm worthy of being Margaret's husband. What I am… what I do… Margaret will thrive, I'm sure of it. They must see that."

John brief despair vanished, replaced by renewed determination to ensure his plans for the mill succeeded. He was not a gentleman and couldn't change that, but he hoped his wealth and prospects would help persuade Margaret's family of his worthiness. He'd show them that he and Margaret belonged together, that her life would be far better with him than any other.


	23. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"But mercy is above this sceptered sway; it is enthroned in the hearts of kings"

A week before Christmas, Margaret went to visit Bessy and Nicholas after church to give them the small gifts she had made them. She was surprised to learn the Nicholas had not been working since the strike.

"Are you out of work because of your role in the strike?" she asked him. John had said the masters had collectively decided not to hire the union workers back.

Nicholas smirked at her. "I'm out of work because I _choose_ not to work."

"Have you asked for work at your old mill? Hamper seemed to speak highly of you."

"Aye, well, 'amper knows I'm a good worker; 'e'd take me back. But there's a new rule, we're not allowed to pay into the union. Their thinkin' is, if we're not allowed, there'll be no strikes. We're not askin' Masters to fund a strike. We're not that simple. But where's the crime in givin' to your own out of your own wages, freely earned? The people who pay you don't get t'tell you how to spend your money," he insisted.

"You could ask Mr. Thornton for work. I know he'd be reasonable," Margaret implored him.

"Thornton?" said Nicholas incredulously. "He's the one that brought in the Irish that led to the riot that broke the strike! Even 'amper would have waited, but Thornton, 'e's got no deceit about 'im. And now, just when we needed 'im to be 'ard, to hunt down the union men who betrayed us, what does 'e do? he says HE'S the injured party. He won't press charges. They'll not get employment, they're well known. That's punishment enough, 'e says. I thought 'e'd have more guts," he scoffed.

"Mr. Thornton was right. I know that you're angry with the rioters, but even you must see that anything more would look like revenge," Margaret said gently, trying to get the zealous man to see reason. His strike had not succeeded, but taking his anger out on the poor followers was not the answer.

The door to the Higgins' house opened suddenly, propelling inside in a freezing gust of wind and a disheveled man. He was as thin as a rail, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. He barely glanced at Margaret and Bessy; he threw himself towards Nicholas.

"Hide me! Them police men are still lookin'! I ain't been 'ome in weeks!"

"Hide you? You've got some nerve Boucher!" shouted Nicholas, shoving the man away from him. Nicholas turned feral in an instant. Margaret realized this must be the man who had broken the strike.

"You wouldn't give us up!"

"Wouldn't I?" snarled Nicholas. He seized Boucher by his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. Bessy gave a rasping scream. "You ruined the strike! We would 'ave won! What'ye think you were doin'? Violence at Thornton's, half killing a woman. My _god_ , a woman?!"

Boucher turned his terrified gaze upon Margaret. He'd recognized her. She swallowed nervously. Neither Nicholas or Bessy had been told that Margaret had been that woman. She did not want to enlighten them; no doubt Nicholas's fury would increase tenfold if he knew. She shook her head at Boucher, mutely telling him that she would not reveal herself.

"No goin' against the law; that was the iron rule! We were in the right, we could've taken everyone with us, but you... You had to act like a senseless, crazed animal as they think we are. You want me to hide you from the police?! Never!" he spat. "I'm a committee man, a union man, people trust me! Trust my word! I'll not bring myself down by hidin' a worthless criminal like you!"

"Ye said one week," howled Boucher. "The strike weren't workin', when it were gonna end? It's all right for you, your wife and children ain't starving!"

"And neither would yours! I gave you my word and I keep my word! I gave you food and money! I 'ad more if it went on longer. You were just too stupid to listen to me!" Nicholas yelled. Boucher moaned and began sobbing. He flopped down into a kitchen chair.

Nicholas watched him, his face screwed up in revulsion. "God, you, disgust me. You'r' pathetic. You could'a been born with a king's fortune, you still would'a failed them. You'r' only in this world to bring us all down, your family, your friends, the union–"

Boucher lunged at Nicholas, his hands going to his throat to strangle him. Margaret leapt to her feet.

"No, stop!" she cried. Bessy clung to Margaret's hand to stop her from intervening. Nicholas shoved Boucher away from him. Boucher crashed into the table, rolling off it onto the floor.

"I'll be tellin' the police where you are! I'll tell them where you are!" shouted Nicholas. Boucher scrambled to his feet and sprinted out the door. Nicholas chased after him.

"I am givin' you up, Boucher!" he bellowed, then slammed the door with such force Margaret was surprised it didn't splinter in two.

The room was quiet for a moment. Only the sounds of Bessy's panicked hoarse breathing was heard. Finally, Nicholas turned to the two women who were huddled on the bed. His expression cleared somewhat.

"Arr, I'm sorry, lass. It had to be told. Bu' I'm sorry you two 'ad to witness it."

"It's alright," replied Margaret shakily. The three of them sat quietly for a few more minutes, before Margaret rose to leave.

Should she tell John that Boucher was the man he was looking for? She did not want that poor creature to be imprisoned, it would only hurt his family; it sounded as though Boucher had been causing his family great distress for a long while and she did not want to add to it. But nor did she want to keep a secret from John. She did not want their relationship to be shadowed by any unpleasantness and the strain of keeping this from him would certainly do that. Perhaps she would leave Nicholas to tell John. She could implore John to show mercy to Boucher and use Nicholas's actions to persuade John that he was honorable and worth hiring. Two birds with one stone.

Nicholas escorted Margaret back to Crampton. Margaret used the walk to mull over how to explain her plan to Nicholas. On the edge of Princeton, they saw a crowd of people had gathered around a cart that was stopped in the main street. To Margaret's confusion, once she and Nicholas came into view, the crowd began to gesture frantically to Nicholas.

"Higgins! Get over 'ere! This is Boucher ain't it?" one of the men shouted. Margaret felt her blood run cold. She and Nicholas walked to the crowd as if in a trance. There, lying in the road beneath the cart – his neck bent at impossible angle – was Boucher.

"It can't be Boucher," moaned Nicholas, doubling over with grief. "I jest saw 'im. 'e wouldn't 'ave the nerve to kill 'imself."

"'e didn't," insisted one of the onlookers. "The man was runnin' full tilt. Ran right into the path o' the cart, didn't even stop to look. There was nothin' the driver could 'ave done."

"Higgins. You knew 'im. You must go and tell 'is wife," one of the men insisted. "Do it now, man. We can't leave him 'ere."

"I canna!" Nicholas wept.

"I will go," Margaret said quietly. Nicholas was too lost in grief to protest. After a whispered conversation with a man who knew where the Boucher's lived, Margaret went to the house he indicated. The house was full of children, six of them, all very young. As soon as Margaret saw that, she began to weep as well. She gulped out an explanation to his young wife, who fell to her knees. She insisted on being taken to her husband. Margaret took her arm and led her back to the main street.

Mrs. Boucher stumbled towards her husband's body. Margaret tried to hold her back from the gruesome scene, but the distraught woman wrenched herself from Margaret's grip and flung herself down into the snow next to her husband's body.

"No… No… he loved us all," she gave a heart-wrenching sob. "And we loved him… and I spoke such terrible words about 'im only this mornin'! What are we to do?" she wailed, sobbing hysterically.

Nicholas seemed unable to take charge, so Margaret did. She got some of the women to take Mrs. Boucher back to her home; they half carried, half dragged her from her husband. Margaret sent a man to go for the police so that Boucher's body could be removed and prepared for burial. At the word 'burial', Nicholas finally spoke.

"I'll pay," he said gruffly. "Twas I who drove 'im to tha' state. I'll pay."

.

Only a few days later, Margaret learned that Mrs. Boucher suffered an apoplexy from the trauma of it all and followed her husband to heaven, leaving their six children orphans. Nicholas, Bessy, Margaret, and the six Boucher children attend the funeral of the elder Bouchers. They were buried high above the city in the churchyard, where the air was clean and sweeter.

.

.

.

"Go on! Get out and don't come back! Get out!"

John had been climbing the stairs to his office when Williams raised voice made him stop and look to the courtyard below. He watched with a frown as Williams pushed Higgins toward the mill gates, almost shoving him off balance. John had asked Williams to remove any union members that came to Marlborough Mill looking for work and it seemed that Williams was following John's command with great enthusiasm.

"And don't show your face in here again!" shouted Williams angrily, giving Higgins a final shove. John watched Higgins' humiliating dismissal for a moment longer, then continued up the stairs to the mill.

.

The following day, John left the manor early, intent on speaking to Latimer, his banker, about a loan for the mill. His present finances did not allow for him to expand at the rate he wanted. He would need at least two thousand pounds to implement it. He'd had enough to buy the tenement and secure the down payment on the machines, but the rest of the money he needed was tied up in the mill at present. John was annoyed at having to be indebted in another loan, ever since he had paid off his last one. But if he wanted to double his production once again, there was no way around it.

John saw Higgins out of the corner of his eye when he passed through the archway. Higgins looked exhausted. As John hurried passed, he spoke up suddenly, "I need to talk to you, sir."

John did not have the time or the inclination to listen to Higgins right now. The man was a troublemaker and had been thrown out once before. John did not think the man would have anything of interest to tell him.

"I can't stop now," John told him in a clipped tone. He put on his hat and pushed past Higgins.

Latimer was surprised by John's visit. John did not tell him want he really needed the loan for, he did not want gossip to reach the other masters and undermine John's advantage. Instead, he let Latimer believe that the strike had pushed back production at Marlborough Mill too far, necessitating a loan. John decided to ask for a loan of a thousand pounds; he'd get the rest together himself when these next orders were complete. He did not want the figure to be too high and arouse suspicion.

Latimer was happy to loan John the money, although seemed more eager about pressing John towards investments of other kinds.

"There are more modern financial procedures than bank loans, Thornton. Investments. I could let you know when I hear of any such schemes," he told John smugly.

John scowled. "Speculation? I'll not risk everything I have on some idiot money scheme," he growled, annoyed that Latimer would even suggest it.

Latimer was offended. "They're quite respectable, you know. A fellow in York had just doubled his money using a scheme in the rail works. Lots of these new inventions allow for investments and shares. You put in your money and let someone else do all the hard work for you."

"That is precisely what I abhor about it. I'll not put money down on a scheme I known nothing about, or cannot watch closely and have input over the outcome."

"Well, I can see there's no use convincing you. I'll draw up the documents for the loan and prepare it for you. Come back in the New Year to sign them," said Latimer resignedly. John thought it unlikely that he'd heard the last of the man's views on the subject. Latimer was a rich man well enough, but it was not all down to him. John knew had inherited a great deal of money and had several financial advisers to aid him. John did not completely trust his judgment in these matters as a result.

He spent the rest of the day visiting several craftsmen about prices for the new machines. They took him through cost and quality, and how long it would take them to build the machines he wanted. He visited the construction overseer of the tenement and asked after its progress. He'd bring Margaret here soon, so that she could see the results of her plans.

John stalked back to the mill late that evening, his mind whirring. He was excited about this new step in his business and confident that everything would work out as he planned. It was another step towards convincing the Hales that he was worthy to marry their only daughter. He could prove that he was resourceful and driven, as Margaret herself was. Show them that they were compatible for each other; that it was more than just a love match – it was a true meeting of the minds.

"Sir," Higgins respectful yet insistent voice pulled John from his calculating thoughts.

"Good god, are you still here?" John asked in him in disbelief. It was almost nightfall; Higgins had been standing at the mill gates for hours in the freezing cold.

"Aye, sir. I want to speak to you," he said determinedly.

John frowned at him. He ran his gaze over Higgins stout frame, noting that he was gripping his cap tightly in both hands. John knew he was going to refuse the man work due to his meddling, but Higgins had been waiting for hours to speak with him. He might as well find out what it was he was burning to say.

"You'd better come in then," John told him shortly. John climbed the stairs to his office, not bothering to see if Higgins was following him. John sat behind his desk. He saw several messages had come for him while he was away. He flipped through them quickly, sorting them into the piles in front of him, according to what they referenced. Without looking at the man standing awkwardly in the doorway, John said tersely, "Well, what do you want with me?"

"My name is Higgi–"

"I know who you are. What do you want?"

"I want work," Higgins stated bluntly.

"Work? You've got a nerve," said John darkly.

"Hamper'll tell you I'm a good worker," Higgins insisted, taking a step closer to John's desk.

John gave a bitter laugh. "I'm not sure you'd like to hear all of what Hamper would have to say about you. I've had to turn away a hundred of my hands for following you and your union. And you think that I should take you on? Might as well set fire to the cotton waste and have done with it."

Higgins looked as though he was going to leave, but he stopped. His expression became even more determined.

"I promise ya, I'd not speak against you. If I found anythin' wrong, I'd give you fair warnin' afore takin' action. I'm a steady man. I work hard."

"How do I know you're not just planning mischief? Or maybe you're just interested in saving up money against another strike," John sneered at him. Higgins was angered by that.

"I need work, for the family of a man who were driven mad! Boucher 'ad his job taken by one of those Irishmen you hired. One who wouldn't 'ave known one end of a loom from another–!"

" _Your_ union forced me into hiring those Irish!" snarled John. He was through with this conversation. He did not want his motives questioned by anyone, least of all this man.

John got up to retrieve the ledger then sat back down again, wanting to get some work done before tomorrow. "If I were to believe your reason… I can't say that I'm inclined to. I'd advise you to try some other work and leave Milton," he told Higgins dismissively.

"If it were warmer, I'd take Paddy's work and never come back again. But it's winter and those children will starve. If you knew any place away from mills… I'd take any wage they thought I was worth for the sake of those children."

"Oh, you'd take wages less than others?" John mocked. Higgins looked ashamed of his own words. "They have no union of course. Your union'd be down like a ton of bricks on my Irish for trying to feed their families, and yet you'd do this for these children? I'll not give you work. You're wastin' your time," Jon told him furiously. He looked pointedly towards the door, wanting Higgins to leave. Instead, Higgins gave him a sour smile.

"I was told to ask you by a woman. Thought you had a kindness about you. She was mistaken. But I'm not the first to be misled by a woman," he said cuttingly.

"Tell her to mind her own business next time and stop wasting your time and mine," said John harshly. "Now, get out." Higgins gave him a long look then finally did as John commanded.

After he left, John ran his hand over his brow, contemplating Higgins final words. He had no doubt the woman her referred to was Margaret. She'd not asked him to hire Higgins yet, but John had only seen her once since the day she came to visit him. He'd been busy finalizing his plans for the mill and Margaret had told him she was helping her friend Bessy arrange a funeral. She had not said who it was and her distress stopped him from inquiring. He wondered if it was the funeral of the man Higgins mentioned, but then dismissed that thought. He did not believe there was such a person, just Higgins trying to drum up sympathy. But still, if Margaret liked Higgins, there must be some good in him.

John called Williams in to the office.

"Sir?"

"How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?"

"He was outside the gate when I arrived, sir, and it's five now," Williams reported.

John thought on that. Higgins was a proud man. If he was doing all this just to get up to some mischief, John would be surprised. The man had let himself been humiliated and then spent upwards of ten hours waiting outside the mill in the sleet for a chance to speak with him. John began to think Higgins had been telling the truth.

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The following afternoon, having spent the day asking the workers in his mill about Higgins affairs, John walked into Princeton. He'd never been here before. He and his family had lived in Winslow, the most southern areas of Milton's poor districts. Princeton was not much different though. The same cramped buildings. The filthy streets. All its people grey and lifeless.

He past a woman and her child. The girl put her hand out for a coin; a well practiced gesture. John placed a half crown coin in her small hand. He eyes lit up and she quickly shoved the prize into her pocket. John smiled at her, pleased with his gift, but was quickly overcome with sadness of her situation; of all of those in Milton. He continued to the address he'd been given. He knocked sharply on the rough wooden door.

Higgins answered, his expression registering shock and anger at John's presence. He looked as though he was debating whether or not to let John in. Finally, he opened the door wider and stood back to let him inside.

The house was tiny, only one room with two beds and a table and crooked wooden bench. A loft with more beds overhung the small space. A fire crackled slowly in the corner, a pot of something hanging over it, bubbling away. A young woman, Margaret's friend Bessy presumably, was sitting on the bed with a child on her lap. Five more children of various ages were crowded around her, looking fearful at John's grand stature.

The room was completely bare of embellishments, no toys for the children or even extra clothing that he could see. One of the little girls was hugging a bundle of rags to her chest; the rags shaped into a rough outline of a doll.

"Are these your children?" John asked Higgins quietly.

Higgins frowned at him. "No, but they're mine now."

"And these are the children you mentioned yesterday?"

"You didn't believe me?"

"I spoke to you in a way that I had no business to," replied John gravely. "I did not believe you. I couldn't have taken care of a man such as Boucher's children. I have made enquiries and I know now that you spoke the truth. I beg your pardon."

"Well, Boucher's dead an' I am sorry. But that's the end of it," said Higgins shortly. His gaze roved over the children, a faint look of desperation on his face.

John squared his shoulders. "Will you take work with me? That's what I came here to ask."

Higgins looked him in the eye then. "You've called me impudent, a liar, a mischief-maker. But for the sake of these children, do you think we could get along?"

"It's not my proposal that we get on well together," John said, ignoring the insulting tone. It was deserved in this case.

"Work is work. I'll come. And what's more, I'll thank you. And that's a good deal from me."

John shook the Higgins' hand. "And this is a good deal from me. Now, mind you come sharp to your time. What times we have, we keep sharp." John gave Higgins a strong look. "And the first time I catch you using that brain of yours to make trouble, off you go. Now you know where you are."

Higgins smirked. "Reckon I'll leave my brains at home, then."

John nodded once and moved toward the door. He hesitated, then turned back to Higgins.

"Was Miss Hale the woman that told you to come to me?" he asked. Higgins just grinned. "You might have said," said John irritably.

"And you'd have been a bit more civil?" Higgins mocked.

John glared at the man and left without bothering to reply.

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Even though the Thorntons had no extended family to celebrate the Christmas season with, Mother did make an effort to have a special dinner on Christmas day. Fanny asked for a tree to put up in the drawing room and spent ages decorating it, along with the rest of the house. The house now smelt delightfully of pine, and the servants had extra work sweeping up the needles that dropped everywhere.

At Fanny's insistence, other fashionable customs were observed; gifts under the tree, and crackers – a package of sweets that made a snapping sound when pulled apart. It was very much Fanny's holiday as most of the gifts were for her, since John and his mother only gave each other a few personal presents. The holiday was a sadder one for John and his mother, close to the death of John's father.

John couldn't help imagining what Christmas with Margaret would be like. Decorating a tree, playing parlor games, laughing together. He'd had little to do the past few days except think on her. He'd given his workers four days paid holiday over Christmas week and the quietness of the mill left him with little to do but be consumed by his thoughts.

He had wanted to see her, but limited his visits because of the family holiday. After Boxing Day, he went to Crampton to wish the Hales happy Christmas. John also brought a small gift for Margaret but was unsure how to give it to her in front of her family. He'd seen the gift in a shop in the arcade and had been captivated by it. The item itself was simple – a glass ball meant to be used as a paperweight – but the design inside was mesmerizing; it was full of colours that mimicked the night sky. He was sure she would love it; it was both practical and beautiful, just like her.

Margaret herself answered his knock. She beamed at him.

"I was watching from the windows and saw you walk up. Merry Christmas!" She took his gloved hand in hers and squeezed, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

John smiled widely at her enthusiastic greeting. "Merry Christmas, Margaret. You look very festive," he told her, gazing admiringly at her outfit.

She was wearing a dark red gown with a flowery pattern; a sprig of holly was wound into her hair. "Thank you," she grinned. "Come inside, quick, before you freeze. Let me take your things."

He was soon installed in the warm drawing room, exchanging greetings with the rest of the family. The small room was decorated for the holiday, and he could see Margaret's influence in the tasteful paper chains and wreaths.

"How was your Christmas, John?" asked Mr. Hale.

"Wonderful; for Fanny mostly. She's decorated the whole house to look like an evergreen forest and reveled in the gifts she received. I spent most of the time reading the Rousseau you lent me," he replied, producing the book to return to his tutor.

Mr. Hale raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You read it already? I only gave it to you a week ago!"

"I gave the hands a few days off. I've had more free time this past week," John grinned. "And it was too engaging not to finish in one go."

"You sound like Maggie. She can't help but finish a book in one sitting either," Hale piped up, with a sly grin at the two of them.

"Whereas you can't finish one at all," Margaret shot back jestingly.

"Not if I can help it," returned Hale, tossing a sweetmeat into the air to catch in his mouth. "Far better things to do."

"I can see that," said Margaret dryly.

"Hey, I've been productive. I've been working. Haven't caused any trouble."

"Yet."

"Margaret, leave Fred alone. He hasn't done anything to warrant your irritation," cut in Mrs. Hale without looking up from her sewing.

"Yet," replied Hale and Margaret together, grinning.

Margaret and John spoke quietly together for a while, Margaret asking after how he handled the decline of business in winter. As they talked, John noticed that Mrs. Hale kept regarding him with a slightly hostile air. He wondered if Mr. Hale had shared his suspicions of John's attentions to their daughter with her; she had sat in the drawing room with the rest of her family and John the past three of his visits. It was impossible not to notice how fondly John interacted with Margaret.

It seemed as though Mother may have been right; Mrs. Hale didn't look as though she was in favor of the potential union that was developing under her roof. Perhaps John ought to speak with her, after Margaret agreed. Or maybe it would simply be better to talk to Margaret about all of this. John was almost positive that if Margaret did refuse him, it wouldn't be because she didn't like him. And he wanted to always be open with Margaret. This was something that the two of them ought to be facing together.

Hale soon grew uninterested in John and Margaret's conversation and suggested the three of them play a game instead. He proposed Dictionary; the boring game made fun by Margaret and Hale's bickering. Hale, predictably, had chosen the most ridiculous words for them to define, often spoiling it making up his own definition and rewarding himself the points when neither John nor Margaret had guessed correctly. At Margaret's chastising, he began to pick agonizingly simple words instead, which led the siblings to argue about the correct definition of the word 'hall' – Hale saying it was a long passageway, Margaret insisting it was a reference to a Great Hall in a castle.

"Like in the novel 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall'. It's meant to show that the house is very old and grand."

"I've heard of that novel. Is it any good?" John asked her.

Margaret nodded enthusiastically. She grabbed the book from the bookshelf and gave it to him. "I've only just finished it. It's written as a series of letters. Isn't that interesting? It's a more intimate way to read a novel. As though the characters are writing to you directly as their friend."

"Diarists and letters aren't a new literary type, it's been around since the beginning of time," said Hale. "I've heard that Samuel Pepys's book is written like that."

"Yes, but Pepys was writing about his own life, not fiction." Margaret laughed suddenly. "And I can't believe you think the beginning of time started with Samuel Pepys! He only lived two centuries ago."

Hale looked confused. "Did he?"

"He was the one who wrote the firsthand accounts of the fire of London, the great plague and the aftermath of the civil war."

"I thought he was the fellow who talked about the lives of English poets."

"That's Samuel _Johnson_! Goodness, Fred. You have a mind like a sieve. Too many blows to the head," Margaret giggled.

"I can't help it if my charm is too much for most people."

"I've read Pepys," John told them. "It was interesting to read about how ordinary people lived during that time. Although he could be a little dry at times; when he talked at length about his money troubles and the weather. And his watch, for some odd reason."

"What a tiresome fellow. What could he possibly have to talk about regarding the weather? He lived in London, didn't he? So it rained," Hale shrugged.

John grinned. "That's certainly one thing that will always remain constant. A thousand years before or a thousand years in the future – England will always have terrible weather."

Margaret laughed again and stood up to ring for tea. During tea, John remembered his visit to Princeton.

"The funeral you were helping arrange… was if for a man named Boucher?" he asked Margaret.

"Yes," she told him quietly. "He was killed after being hit by a cart. Nicholas Higgins has taken in his six children. Boucher came to him, asking him to hide him from the police, but Nicholas refused. I was trying to think of a way to persuade Nicholas to speak with you about the issue."

"Boucher was the one who struck you," John realized.

"Yes. I was going to tell you after I found out because I didn't want to keep it from you, but then I thought if Nicholas was the one to tell you, you'd look more favourably on him and be more willing to hire him. But after Boucher died, I'm afraid it slipped my mind," she said apologetically.

"I've hired Higgins anyway. I went to Princeton and told him so."

Margaret smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. The two of you are more alike than you realize. He is a self-made man just as you are. Or he hopes to be."

John frowned at that. He didn't think they were alike at all. "Higgins hasn't done what I have done. I alone am responsible for my success."

"You see the injustice of that way of thinking, surely?" exclaimed Margaret. "You say you have achieved all you have done on your own merit, and that is true and it's commendable. But you must realize that others had a hand in it as well."

He opened his mouth in some testiness, ready to defend himself, but Margaret cut across him pleadingly.

"No, listen, let me explain! You told me you had to work at sixteen, to feed your family. But it was the draper who chose to employ you in the first place. When you became a mill overseer, it was the owner who hired you. And when he died and you took over as owner, the bank gave you the funds to purchase it. I tell you this, not to cast pall over your accomplishments. On the contrary, I think them magnificent. But you condemn others for suffering as you did, without acknowledge that there were other forces that aided in your success. You can become that person for others."

John paused, thinking. He didn't agree with Margaret, not completely. It was _his_ determination that drove him to act as he did; to refuse to take no for an answer as he built his business. But he did understand what she was trying to say.

"Well, then, I hope Higgins uses the opportunity well."

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief at his assent. "He will. He only wants a better life for his fellows, and his family – just as you did."

"Aye, that I can see about him; though we both came about it by different routes."

Hale yawned and stood up. "Christ, it's too hot in here. Let's go for a quick walk, you two, before I die of heatstroke."

John almost rolled his eyes at Hale's transparent excuse, but was happy to be given the opportunity to be somewhat alone with Margaret. The three of them gathered their warm things and headed outside. It wasn't snowing, but there was brown sludgy snow drifts piled high on the sidewalks, compelling the party to walk in the road. Hale slyly ambled several paces behind John and Margaret so as to give the couple privacy.

With a furtive glance behind him to see that Hale couldn't overhear, John told Margaret, "I spoke to Mother about our understanding. She told me that you impressed her, and that she will make an effort to be civil towards you. I am ashamed by how she has treated you in the past, and I don't want that to be a barrier between us."

"I understand why she did so. She wanted you to have nothing to do with me."

"Aye," John admitted. "But I've made it clear to her that you are my choice and that she can no longer object on some trifling reason."

"She has no objections?" asked Margaret, surprised.

"No. Not anymore." John took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing for a blow. "Would your family object?" he asked her softly.

Margaret hesitated, her eyes sad, and said, "I think they would. Not Papa; he'd give his consent if he knew it was what I wanted. Mama… would be less pleased, but her displeasure would be directed at me, not you."

John bit his lip. "Is there anything I can say to her? You know that I can… care for you. Give you a comfortable home, and anything else that you might want."

She smiled and brushed her gloved hand against his briefly. "I know you can. That wouldn't be her concern. She knows you're richer than us."

"It's because I'm not a member of the gentry."

"Yes, that would be her objection," huffed Margaret. "Despite how ridiculous it is. Being born a gentleman doesn't guarantee that one is a better person. I've met laborers who are wonderful people, and Lords who are complete rakes. But Mama's views are too ingrained in her. She was raised that way and has known nothing else."

"If an engagement was announced and she did object strongly… what would happen?" John asked her in an agonizing whisper.

Margaret sighed. "Mama would forgive me, eventually. My cousin Edith, she could go either way. My extended family would be the ones to object most strongly, but it wouldn't effect me very much."

"My mother thought perhaps your parents would oppose on… financial grounds, if you had an annuity settled on you. I want to tell you that, if that's the case, I would be more than happy to continue to provide for your family," John explained swiftly.

Margaret was surprised. "The annuity is not mine, it's my mothers; given to her by her father. How did your mother know there was one?"

John flushed slightly. "She was confused as to how your lifestyle met up with your father's income."

"Oh. I see. Well, that isn't an issue, since the money is not mine. In fact, I…" Margaret hesitated. "I do not have a dowry. There will be no money for my husband. I don't know if that will affect your decision."

He took her hand quickly. "No. No, of course not. I have no need of it. I think I've proved I can make my own money."

Margaret laughed lightly. "Yes, you've certainly proved that."

"And you wouldn't mind giving up court and London society?" he murmured, pressing her hand, needing to be comforted by the warmth of her.

"Mind?" grinned Margaret. "I'd be happy to. It was nothing like I thought it would be, nothing I wanted out of life. Milton is where I'm meant to be."

"So there are no obstacles between us?" he asked elatedly.

"I don't believe so, not of that kind. If I am cut, I will deal with it. Mama would forgive me and Papa would be happy. I think Fred's position is obvious," she said, with an amused glance at her brother. "Only my feelings remain. Oh! Speaking of which –" Margaret stopped and pulled an object from her coat pocket. "I know there is no engagement yet, but it's Christmas, so I wanted to get you a gift."

Margaret presented it to him shyly. It was an elegant wooden card case; the front painted in her own hand, with his initials bordered with leaves and red clover – an emblem of industry. He accepted the case reverently.

"Thank you, Margaret." He smoothed his thumb across the face of it. "It's beautiful."

She smiled at him. "Good. I'm glad you like it."

"I can't believe you did this," he told her wonderingly. He pulled his own gift from his pocket and held it up for her to see, a wide grin on his face. "Here is my gift to you."

Margaret took the paperweight, turning it over repeatedly in her hands to see it's many colours. She raised her eyes to his. "Thank you," she whispered happily.

You are very welcome, my darling," John replied, kissing her forehead briefly.

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*Author's note: Pepys's diary was released in two volumes in 1825. He also wrote extensively about his sexual conquests but these passages were omitted from publications until the 1970s and so John and Margaret would not have read them.


	24. Chapter 22

*A/N: Due to an upcoming chapter and later ones as well, I have changed the rating from T to M.

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Chapter 22

"Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did; My heart fly to your service"

The following Sunday, Margaret went to church with her family, then continued on to the hospital alone. Sarah was there as well and the pair happily exchanged gifts and stories about their respective Christmases. Paper chains were strung up around the recuperating ward but beyond that, there was no other festive touches to mark the passing holiday, there being no money to spare.

She and Sarah spent time with the few patients that were forced to remain in hospital over Christmas, reading and writing them their letters home. There was not pressing medical issues, so after a few hours, Margaret made her way home again.

It had started to snow while she was inside, and now it swirled all around her, threading itself through her hair and sticking to her eyelashes. Winter here was much colder than in London. Margaret pulled her coat more tightly around her and walked faster through the fluttering snow. She was so absorbed in getting home quickly that she almost walked straight into John and would've slipped on the icy pavement if he hadn't caught her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his hands steadying her.

"Of course. Thank you for catching me though, that could've been quite undignified!" she laughed.

He smiled. "I was just on my way to the hospital to see if you were there. I was hoping I would have 'accidently' bumped into you and been able to walk you home. Now I have done, literally."

Margaret grinned at that, pleased. He offered her his arm – using the pretext of assisting her over the icy walk – and they started off towards Crampton. The cold weather kept most people indoors and so there was no one to really raise an eyebrow at their behavior.

"I finished Wildfell Hall. I can't say I was completely taken with it. I hope you didn't think of me as any of the male characters," he quipped, "they were such degenerates."

Margaret snorted. "No. I didn't even think of that, to be honest. I liked that Helen was independent and an artist. And how devoted she was to her son. But I agree with you that none of the male characters are particularly likeable. I think it was actually written by a woman."

"You think Acton Bell is a pseudonym?"

"I don't think a man could write so convincingly about the trials of being a woman. And perhaps only a woman could scorn men that way. Helen's husband had no redeeming characteristics."

"I think that was the point," mused John. "It's a warning; that everyone is capable of redemption, but not everyone seeks it."

"I didn't look at it that way. I think you're right."

"Do you believe everyone is worthy of forgiveness?" John asked her curiously. "Even someone like him?"

"I'd like to think so. It would be comforting to know that people would forgive me if I did something wrong."

"But don't you think that would make you more unlikely to do the right thing, knowing that there would be no consequences?"

Margaret smiled slightly. "That's Fred's reasoning, certainly. But I think, for most people, it's the right way to go about things."

John chucked. Margaret saw his breath in the air as he did so. She fluttered her fingers against his arm, enjoying the warmth of his body next to hers as much as their conversation. She loved that they were so companionable.

"Have the craftsman begun work on the machines yet?" she asked him.

"Aye, on Wednesday. They tell me it should be finished by March. I bought 130 already, from various places in the county, and some from York. If all goes to plan, the mill will be running at double capacity by the beginning of April, in time for the Exhibition and the high season."

"I cannot wait to see all of it," enthused Margaret.

John reached over and clasped the hand she was resting against his arm. "I will take you to see it once everything is finished. That reminds me, the renovations and painting for the tenement is going to be completed in three weeks. Then we can start taking down the list of names. Then, hopefully we – Margaret?"

She had locked her knees so suddenly she almost tripped into the street again. Her arm dropped from his as he turned to face her, concerned. Margaret could only stare at him.

All he had said was 'we'. A tiny word. A simple one. But one that held such endless possibilities and promise. Everything she knew she wanted. A life she was certain of; with the man she had come to love. She wanted it to be 'we' for the rest of her life. The two of them – her and John. Always.

"Is something–"

"Yes," she blurted. "Yes to all of it. Yes to everything. Yes to you."

John blinked at her then went very pale. "Yes?" he repeated, as if not believing his ears. His voice was barely a whisper, snatched by the wind so that she had to read his lips. He looked dumbstruck.

Margaret nodded vehemently. "Yes. Yes, I will marry you."

She couldn't believe she'd accept him outside the grocer; in the snow and both of them quickly become wet in the freezing weather. She'd imagined an acceptance to a proposal taking place under a gazebo in the park, or during an enchanting sunrise. But perhaps this was even better. It was honest and simple and so made all the more beautiful for it.

The two of them stared at each other a moment longer before John wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to his chest, lifting Margaret off her feet in his fervor. She threw her arms around his neck, and they both laughed joyfully. He pressed ardent kisses to her brow, her nose, her lips.

"I love you, John. I realize that now. I feel as though I always have. You simply fit right here, next to my heart."

"Oh, my darling. Aye, that's exactly what this is. My soul found yours."

Tears of happiness began to slide down her cheeks. She hugged John tighter, brushing her fingers through his hair for the first time.

"Marry me," John said, his own eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Yes," laughed Margaret, kissing him again.

"Marry me."

"Yes."

"I will never tire of hearing you say that," he breathed, closing his eyes.

These past months had proved to her that John was perfect for her, and she for him. They could talk endlessly, they had the same interests. They communicated well, they inspired each other.

Love was not as Edith described to her. It was not eyes meeting across a crowded room and then dancing off into the sunset. It was discussion and working together and supporting each other. It was sinking into a hot bath after a long day; tracing the familiar words of a well-loved book.

Falling in love was like coming home.

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John kissed her again and again, his heart bursting. ' _Yes to everything… I will marry you… I love you_.'

"What do we do now? Run off and elope?" Margaret asked teasingly.

"We probably can't do that," smiled John. "How about we starting with announcing it to your father?"

Margaret sighed dramatically. "Very well. I suppose we must be resigned to following the rules."

The two of them walked back to Crampton in a flurry of happiness. They didn't speak much, but both grinned widely at each other whenever the caught the other's eye. Once inside the foyer, they stripped off their wet outerwear. Margaret's hair was dripping wet, her nose and cheeks red with cold – she had never looked more beautiful to him. He kissed her warm mouth again, feeling her lips upturn in a smile beneath his own.

"Papa will be in his study. You can go up and ask him straightway," she whispered.

John nodded. He brushed his fingers across her jaw briefly then continued up the stairs alone. Just before he knocked, he looked back at Margaret; she had her hands pressed to her mouth, he eyes shining with joyful tears. He smiled warmly at her, the smile still on his face when Mr. Hale called to him to enter.

"John! What a nice surprise," exclaimed Mr. Hale, standing and coming around the desk to greet him.

"Mr. Hale. I've come to see you about a very specific matter, and I might as well get right to it. I am here to tell – to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage," John stated in a rush. He was still reeling with happiness, his hands shaking with nerves and elation.

Mr. Hale raised his eyebrows, shocked that there had been no preamble. "Well! I can't say I didn't have an inkling. I've seen how you look at Margaret." He studied John carefully. "Do you love her?"

"Aye, I do. Ardently." John was not surprised that was Mr. Hale's first question; he'd want to be sure that Margaret's future husband loved her, before he thought to enquire after any practical elements of a marriage.

"And I gather you've asked her already."

"Almost two months ago. We did not announce it before now because Margaret wanted to be sure of her feelings," replied John in a slightly apologetic tone. He hoped Mr. Hale wouldn't be annoyed by the concealment. He needn't have worried however, as Mr. Hale grinned widely.

"Ah, my boy, this is wonderful! I'm very pleased for you both!" he exclaimed, shaking John's hand enthusiastically. "The two of you are well suited. I've been watching the way you work together. You're quite compatible."

"Thank you. I promise you I will devote myself to her happiness."

"Of course! I have no doubt of that," he said, waving away John's assurance. "Margaret has grown into a fine woman, if I do say myself. She was quite wild when she was younger. Forever climbing trees and sword fighting. Fred's influence, but I did indulge her so. Because her and Fred were so close in age, I educated them together. My wife took over her education later, after Fred left for sea. So she's had exposure to both worlds, which has rather left her in odd place. An outcast, perhaps. As educated as any clergyman's son ought to be, but being a woman she's not able to do much with it. My wife did attempt to install some feminine pursuits into her, but besides drawing and sewing, she's not had much success. It would take a rare man indeed to love her. She needs a partner, someone who treat her as an equal, be interested in her ideas, for she has many. She'd not find such a man in the South, I think. They are too ingrained in their ways. But here, in the North, the land of innovation and modernity! I'd hoped she'd have more luck. I am glad she has found you, John. You and her will make a fine pair, to be sure."

"I hope I will be worthy of her, sir."

"Nonsense! You already are."

John found himself slightly annoyed by Mr. Hale's speech. Margaret had proved over again that she was quite capable of greatness, clearly having done wonderful things with her cleverness already. Mr. Hale also spoke of Margaret's 'feminine pursuits' as though they were dainty things she did to amuse herself, when in fact she was proficient and skilled at both art forms. But no doubt Mr. Hale meant it kindly; he was clearly proud of his daughter.

"I suppose we ought to talk of finances," said Mr. Hale. "I don't know if Margaret has told you, but my income has always been such that I was not able to settle a dowry on her. I'm afraid most of my money has gone – and will no doubt continue to go – to Fred, getting him out of whatever scrape he has gotten himself into."

"She did tell me; it won't alter anything. I've no need of the money," John replied. He stepped closer to Mr. Hale to press his point. "I know that she will be barred from court and London society if she marries me. We've spoken about this, and Margaret has told me she doesn't mind. But I want to assure you that I can give her anything else she wants. My annual income these past three years has been around two thousand, five hundred pounds. I will visit my lawyer about the marriage settlement so that a jointure can be arranged for her, and settlements for our future children."

John wanted to make sure that if anything happened to him, Margaret would be taken care of, so that she need not suffer the additional difficulties that he and his mother had to go though after his Father left them nothing but debts. He had a will already, his mother and Fanny dividing his wealth. John wanted to alter this, naming Margaret as his successor to the mill. She'd be able to manage it as well as he did.

"I'm happy you can provide for her as she deserves," said Mr. Hale. "That will appease my wife. She will oppose your class… but not too strongly, I think. She will be glad that Margaret will be well cared for."

"I promise that she will."

"Not to worry; I think you've proved that, tenfold," grinned Mr. Hale. He shook John's hand again. "Welcome to the family, John. You must call me Richard from now on. Will you send Margaret in to see me?"

"Of course, Richard." John grimaced slightly. That was going to take some getting used to. He thanked Mr. Hale heartily, then left the study and found Margaret waiting anxiously at the end of the hallway, towelling her hair dry. John wrapped his arms around her and Margaret rested her head against his chest.

"Did it go well?" she asked him.

"Aye, he's pleased for us both," John sighed, relieved. "He wants to see you."

Margaret stood on tiptoe and kissed him quickly before disappearing into the study. John paced the small hallway while he waited for her. He could barely believe it; all his greatest dreams finally coming to pass. He and Margaret together as husband and wife – partners. Her father had agreed and Mother had given John her blessing. Now there was no threat hanging over them, nothing stood in their way anymore. There would only be a short while to wait before they could get married, and then they would truly become one.

They were two halves of a whole; She had been happy but idle. He had been lonely but with occupation. Together, they were balance. Complete.

.

.

.

The moment Margaret entered Papa's study, he enveloped her in a hug.

"Margaret, I'm so happy for you. This is what you want? You love him? You'll be happy with him?"

"Oh, yes, Papa. I do love him. We are perfect for each other," she sighed.

"I think you're right. He's a good man," Papa smiled. "So, I wholeheartedly give you my blessing."

"Thank you, Papa! Thank you," cried Margaret, kissing his cheek. Relief washed over her. She didn't think Papa would refuse, but she was glad to have that confirmed.

"And Mama?" Margaret asked, her smile slipping a little. Mama would probably not oppose the marriage, but she would dislike that Margaret was marrying a man like John.

"Leave your mother to me. She'll be happy for you, I'll make sure of it," Papa replied. "I should be sorry to lose you, but if I must, I am glad it is to John Thornton."

Margaret gave a little laugh. "I'm hardly moving very far. I'll be able to visit often. And John will want to keep up his lessons, so you'll have to come and visit us for that at least."

Papa's eyes lit up to hear her say so. "Indeed, that's true. I will console myself with that then, as well."

Margaret gave Papa another swift kiss then rushed back out to the landing and into John's arms. Loathed to part from one another, John stayed for the afternoon and for dinner. When Mama came home from paying calls, Margaret and John told her together. Margaret's stomach swooped at the lengthy pause before Mama congratulated the two of them. Mama had not been particularly surprised by their announcement, so she must have seen what was coming. She glowered at John through dinner, but seemed satisfied with his loving attention to Margaret, and was soon appeased by that.

After John reluctantly left, the family sat in the drawing room and Mama asked her; "Are you sure, Margaret? Your life will be very different from now on."

"I should hope so," chortled Fred, leering at Margaret, who scowled and shoved him away from her.

"I'm sure, Mama. I want the kind of life he is offering me. One of hard work and achievement. I don't want to spend my time giving tea parties and balls. I want to actually make a difference in the world."

Mama frowned, hurt. "I've achieved plenty in my life, Margaret. Don't sneer at the women who have made that choice."

"Oh, Mama," cried Margaret, distressed. She hadn't meant to disparage women who made that choice. The fact that some women could be content that way was something to be applauded, not ridiculed. "I admire everything you do! There's plenty to admire in a life like that, of course. It's wonderful, but it's… just not for me."

Mama gave her a level look. "I hope you're sure. There's no turning back now."

"I don't want to," replied Margaret firmly.

.

Mrs. Thornton called on the Hales the next morning, so the two families could give their regards to one another. The visit was as stilting as it had been the first time, to Margaret's discomfort. She hoped it wouldn't always be so, as she would soon be living under the same roof as this imposing woman.

Wanting to repair the breach, Margaret spoke up; "I hope you will help me plan the wedding, Mrs. Thornton. I will be very glad of your advice."

"If you wish," was the short reply, not easing Margaret's worries one bit.

It was also soon clear that the mothers of the bride and groom were also not destined to get along, confirmed during this visit when an argument broke out between the two elder women over the marriage license and venue.

"Of course it must be a church wedding," cried Mama scandalized. "Margaret can't be married in the registrar's office!"

"Mama –"

"I would be uncomfortable with a church wedding. I have not been in many years," replied Mrs. Thornton.

"But a civil license is only for Dissenter's… or Catholics…" Mama suddenly shot Mrs. Thornton an alarmed look. "Is your family _Catholic_?"

"No," said Mrs. Thornton, narrowing her eyes in annoyance. "But as I said, I would be uncomfortable attending a church service after all this time."

"Surely, it is up to John and I –"

"John would not want a church wedding either," Mrs. Thornton cut across her severely. "My son will be married by special license, as benefiting a prominent man."

Margaret raised her eyebrows in surprise. "That's an unnecessary expensive approach. We can just as easily get a license from the local clergyman, as we're marrying here anyway."

"Will he even be granted a special license?" asked Mama rudely. "You know they are up to the discretion of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and if your family does not attend church –"

"We are well connected, thank you, even up to _your_ exacting standards –"

"Stop. This discussion is getting us nowhere," said Margaret in annoyance. "I don't want to aggravate either of you, but this decision ought to be made by John and I. Let me speak with him first, and then we can begin planning everything."

"Very well," said Mrs. Thornton curtly, standing to take her leave. She left quickly, furious.

As soon as the drawing room door closed behind her, Margaret rounded on Mama. "That was unkind. Please don't start arguments like that with John's family."

Mama bristled. "I only wanted to make sure everything is done properly. Weddings are important affairs."

"Mrs. Thornton wasn't born in a barn! She knows perfectly well what is meant to happen for a wedding."

"I half-expected her to suggest marriage by _banns_ –"

"Mother!" interrupted Margaret crossly. "Don't! I will be incredibly upset with you if you make every discussion we have about the wedding about our class differences. The Thorntons are respectable people. Just because they have not been presented at court, does _not_ make them inferior to us."

Margaret was still irritated when John came to visit her again that evening. Mother was now cross with the two of them, even though John had nothing to do with it. Mama impolitely left the room after only a terse nod in John's direction, which bemused him.

He came straight to her side, frowning in concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Your mother and mine have clashed over the wedding plans already," Margaret replied, then outlined their argument from earlier.

John sighed. "I hope that won't become a problem later. Mother can lash out harshly when challenged over things like this."

"In this case she was right to do so. Mama was very unkind."

"Perhaps." John took her hand, brushing his lips against her fingers. "Do you have a preference for the license? I don't mind either way."

Margaret took a deep breath. "I always assumed I would be married in church, and I would like my wedding to be held there. But I don't want to make you or your mother uncomfortable. I know you don't attend church."

"No, but I will confess that I also cannot fathom a wedding in any other location… It would seem less real," he said, giving her a lopsided smile.

Margaret couldn't quite return it. "But your mother was very insistent. If we have the wedding in the church, will she attend?"

"I will speak with her. If I tell her it is my wish, she will likely relent."

"I can't believe there is discord between our families already. That doesn't bode well," she huffed.

"We knew it was a possibility," said John, his eyes sad. "Have your written to your Aunt and cousin?"

"Not yet. I'll wait until the invitations are ready to be delivered, in case we have to delay for some reason."

John gave her an odd look. "But won't the invitations be sent out in only a few weeks?"

Margaret stared at him with a confused look of her own. "No, it won't be for months yet. We won't be married until summer; spring at the earliest."

"What?" he gaped, horrified. "That's six months away! Why do we have to wait so long? I want to marry you now, as quickly as possible! Before you have a chance to change your mind!"

Margaret laughed at his panicked tone. "I'm glad to hear that, darling, but unfortunately it can't be rushed. It will take a few months to prepare at least. Your mother certainly won't let it be any sooner."

"How long can it possibly take to plan a wedding?" he asked in amazement.

"It's not just that. The announcement needs to be put in the paper, all our guests must be given ample time to prepare for travelling to the wedding. Mama – and your mother – will insist on the most fashionable wedding possible, and those weddings only take place in the summer," Margaret explained.

"I hardly care about that," John insisted.

"No, but everyone else will," she reminded him. "And your mother is very proud of your position in Milton; your marriage is an important event for society. It can't be done by halves."

John sighed heavily. "And she will not relent over this. Perhaps I can use it to my advantage, then. I'll tell her it will be either a church wedding or a quick wedding."

His mercenary approach made Margaret grin. "You were the one who didn't want to elope," she teased.

"Aye, and I'm regretting my decision. Let's run off now, quick, before anyone can stop us," he replied, his eyes light with humor.

"Our families will only drag us back." Margaret squeezed his hand comfortingly. "Think of it this way – we have six months to spend getting to know each other more. And we can be together more often now."

"The only consolation." John leaned in and kissed her gently.

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.

.

Margaret was right about the length of their engagement. Mother was insistent and a date was set for June, to his dismay. Six whole months to wait until they could be joined. But he and Margaret did spend almost every day together, which made it easier to bear. They were allowed to be alone together for the first time and did so tentatively, unused to the freedom they had been given. They walked out together often; going for strolls in park, and visiting the shopping arcade, chatting incessantly all the while.

They had gone to a coffee shop together to warm themselves up after a particularly cold day, with hilarious results. Margaret had never had coffee before, her Aunt having prohibited it when she was growing up. She had told John that it didn't make her feel more alert, but it did make her heart beat a mile a minute which brought on a slight attack of nerves. They'd had to extend their excursion by a few hours so that he did not deliver her home shaking like a leaf; his jaw ached with the effort of not laughing at her.

A week after New Years, Margaret suggested the two of them go ice skating on the frozen pond on the outskirts of Milton. They trekked though the snow drifts and arrived to find no one else there; the extreme cold keeping everyone away. John was glad of that; he hadn't skated since he was a child and didn't want to make an idiot of himself in front of a crowd. It was bad enough Margaret might see him fall on his face.

He needn't have worried, however. It turned out Margaret was the one who was not good at the activity, while he found muscle memory at play after a few turns around the pond. Margaret countered her lack of finesse by laughing wildly at herself.

"Are you pretending to be uncoordinated just so you can hold on to me?" he asked her teasingly.

"No!" she gasped. "I can't believe it's so hard to keep upright on my own two feet! This must be what it's like to be a toddler learning to walk."

"You never ice skated when you were young?" he asked, gripping her arm tightly to keep her from sliding away from him.

"No. There was nowhere to really skate in Helstone. Edith and I were pushed around in an ice car though."

"'Cause that's the same," he chortled.

"Shut up," she muttered, elbowing him off balance. Her technique improved after a few more turns and she was soon almost able to skate unaided. She still had to flail her arms furiously when tipping over, occasionally catching him in the chest.

"Careful, you'll knock all the wind out of me," he jested in a mock wounded voice.

Margaret grinned at him. "You're more relaxed than I've seen you. More playful. I don't think you've ever teased me before."

John thought on that. She was probably right. But before, they'd always been in the company of others. He also hadn't had much cause to laugh these past years. He couldn't even remember his childhood being as happy as this. It must have been; he had fond memories of his father and mother from back then, but it was more difficult to recall after being overshadowed by the grief of later. He tried to explain this to Margaret.

"It's easier now, now that we're together. I'm more comfortable in your company than in anyone else's."

Margaret slid to a stop in front of him and pulled him down to kiss her.

"What was that for?" he asked dazedly after she pulled away.

"To make you happy. I feel very comfortable with you as well; I never really noticed that until after you spoke of your feelings. Your presence was so comforting that I didn't even realize that it might mean something… if that makes sense," she said with an amused shrug. John grinned at her, pulling her close and kissing her again.

.

Despite the happiness he was experiencing over his engagement, John could not help feeling melancholy the closer it came to the twenty-seventh of January, his mood worsening with every passing day. Not even the extra work of the quarter sessions was able to distract him. Margaret noticed his somber mood; she watched him with concern for a few days. During an evening visit to her house, she finally asking him if there was something amiss.

"It's this time of year is all. The anniversary of my father's death," he told her.

"Oh," she said softly, "of course, I should have guessed that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up such a painful memory."

"It's alright, I don't mind talking about it with you. In fact, I wondered if you might accompany me on Saturday to pay my respects." Margret's presence in his life meant that this year was less painful than those previous. Now, he was looking to the future, instead of back at the past.

Margaret laced her fingers through his and leant her head against his shoulder. "I should be honored, John."

A few days later, the pair walked hand in hand through the icy weather to the cemetery. John's throat closed over. Unlike his last visit, it was exactly as he remembered it; the black skies, the swirling snow. But also unlike last time, Margaret was here with him; her warm hand in his greatly comforting.

Margaret knelt to the ground and brushed the snow from the marker. She had brought a small bundle of forget-me-nots with her, and lay the offering carefully on the stone. The two of them stood for a few moments, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Margaret spoke.

"Do you come here to visit him often?"

"Only once before, a few months ago. Right before I proposed. I wanted to speak with him about you. But before that… no. I wasn't able to before."

"What…" she hesitated, "What was your father like?"

John sighed, thinking hard about the question. "My father… was a risk taker. He loved hearing about new fads, what next thing was going to be a get rich quick scheme. He was a solicitor so we got by well enough. But he had trouble keeping clients. I remember he kept dashing off to places to meet with this person or that person about whatever new invention they were pedaling. That was how he got involved with Clarkson, the man who fleeced him. They had a few successful ventures, and many more terrible ones. My father was forced to sell the house to pay off his debts. But he still didn't learn and soon Clarkson's greed became more apparent. He asked my father to put an enormous amount down on some scheme but then ran off with the money and disappeared. I found out years later that Clarkson died a penniless drunkard, so that is some consolation, I suppose."

Margaret squeezed his hand in sympathy. Lightening his voice, he said, "Fanny was a particular favourite of his. He doted on her. Perhaps that is why she is so spoilt now," he told her, smiling. "He liked to please people. He was generous. He had a great booming voice that used to set us all off laughing when he sang carols at Christmas."

"I wish I could have met him," said Margaret quietly.

"He would've adored you as well. I'm certain he would have been pleased with my choice of wife," said John, kissing her hand briefly.

After a quiet half-hour of reflection, the two began to walk slowly back to Crampton; the biting weather soon becoming over-powering. John was happy to have brought Margaret here, glad to share with her a defining part of who he was.

"It must have been devastating for your mother when he died; having left her no money to take care of you and Fanny. And she still wears mourning for him, even all these years later… Did your parents have a happy marriage?" she asked.

John thought for a moment, trying to remember. "I believe so. I believe they married for love, or affection at least. When I was very young, I remember my father kissing her often, and giving her many gifts for her birthday each year. But the last few years of their marriage were strained, because of his schemes. I was not home much during that time, having gone away to school by then. But I do remember them having a huge row one summer, about his duty to his family. So, they did love each other, I think, but his vices made it hard for them to get along sometimes."

Margaret looked at him understandingly. "I sympathize with your mother. It must have been so hard for her, to be heartbroken and angry at the same time, and so helpless about what to do. A wife has no power over her husband; it is he makes all the decisions. And if he was making terrible ones… perhaps she tried to talk to him about it, but he was ashamed and so lashed out at her for his wife presuming to tell him his business."

John stared at her, surprised by her shrewdness. "That was indeed what they argued about. The ones I overheard, at least. How did you know that?"

"That is the reality of a woman's life. We are under our father's authority and are meant to mimic his opinions, until we marry. Then our husband says what we must think."

"You don't think our married life will be like that, do you? I hope you know that I have no wish to dictate your thoughts or actions. You may do whatever you want, you do not have to wait for my approval," he insisted.

Margaret smiled sadly at him. "Thank you, darling. But that's not quite true, is it? The _law_ says that I cannot act as I wish. Everything I own will soon belong to you. I cannot make a will without your consent, you can confine or reprimand me if you wished, and the law would support you."

"I would _never_ do either of those things," he vowed earnestly. "You can do anything you want, Margaret. I promise you."

Margaret encircled his hand in both her own. "Thank you."

"Were you worried about that?" John asked her, dismayed. He hoped he hadn't done anything to give her that impression.

"No, certainly not," she said. "I wouldn't have agreed if I thought you expected a marriage like that. It wouldn't suit me; I'm far too used to freedom." Margaret smiled at him. "I'm pleased we are on the same page about it, though."

John nodded, appeased by her words. Following her line of thought, he asked, "Do your parents have a happy marriage?" The two of them should talk about this, so as to not repeat any mistakes that could've been avoided. He was sure they would still make many as they adjusted to being bound to another, but at least they might be forewarned about some of them.

"Yes. They married for love, which surprises some people, I think." John was indeed a little surprised to hear that. The elder Hales didn't seem to have much in common, as far as he could see. "Those matches are not common in our circle. But they were able to, as Papa is the third son and only inherited a little money, and Mama is much younger than her siblings. They had less obligations to their families. Their early years were very happy. It was only once Fred was older that things became… difficult for them. Mama began to rely more on Dixon, which also upset Papa, but I don't know if he ever spoke to her about it. Papa is very much the commander of our household. Partly because of my mother's character, she'd rather bop along than play any active part; but also because that's just how they think it ought to be. He makes all the decisions. Even the life-changing ones, like our move to Milton. It turned out to be right for us, but he still did it without consulting me or Mama or asking if we had another idea."

Margaret turned to face him, her gaze determined. "Watching them together, the errors they made… I want our marriage to be about honesty, and talking things through with each other. I don't care if we disagree or think the other is being unreasonable; I wish us to always voice our thoughts. I want us to work though our issues, not mindlessly stare daggers at each other when we're cross."

John quirked a smile at her wording, but nodded easily. "Aye, that's what I think too. I admire your honesty, and I wish you to always be so, even if you think we won't agree."

.

.

.

John also spend some time with Fred as well, at the latter's insistence.

"Come on, we're going to be brothers, aren't we? I'll bet you always wanted a brother," he grinned as John rolled his eyes. They went to the men's club together a few times, playing cards and billiards. John was concerned about the amount of money Fred gambled on this, but he actually won a fair bit, as he was much better at billiards than he was at cards.

He found Fred more personable now than he had before, the younger man making a better effort to be so. Spending more time with Fred, John also began to piece together the reasons for his family's distress. He was not what one would call level-headed; he threw money around carelessly, buying rounds for everyone or placing bets on all manner of things. He wasn't a particularly skilled gambler in terms of ability, but he was able to flatter his opponents into parting with larger sums of money or easing their indignation after his ungallant maneuvering of them.

It was clear to John that Fred had issues with restraint. He was simply unable to stop himself from taking advantage of a situation and had little care for others. Having spent enough time watching him, John could see that Fred was actually cheating; subtly switching cards or stacking the deck. He was only caught once, and was so convincing about it being an honest mistake that even John almost believed him.

Walking back to Crampton from the club, John hesitantly asked Fred why he did such things. John wasn't looking to start a fight, but surely Fred must know that his dealings were going to get him in trouble sooner or later; and probably already had.

"You looking to report me, Sir Magistrate?" Fred asked sarcastically, lighting up a cigarette.

"No," John frowned. "But you know that you'd likely have more money if you saved rather than gambled."

Fred rolled his eyes. "That's a tedious way to go about it."

"But less likely to land you in prison," John shot back.

"Eh, it's not so bad. Learnt some of my best tricks there," Fred shrugged nonchalantly.

John couldn't conceal his shock at that. "What were you imprisoned for?"

"Whatever the judge said I should be imprisoned for," was the invasive reply.

"That's why you stay away from your family," John realized. "So they don't suffer the indignity of your dealings."

"Yep. Margaret would get in trouble on my behalf, even though that's completely nonsensical. And I don't like disappointing my parents."

"Then why do you do it?"

Fred shrugged again. "People make it too easy. Did you see that fool back there? He couldn't plunk down his money fast enough."

John scowled at him. "And you don't see the immorality of that? Praying on gullible people?"

Fred stopped short, glaring back at him. "Do you know what I do with the money?" he demanded. "Most of it goes to my father, to keep Margaret and Mother. I give them gifts all the time, so that they might have something to sell the next time my father decided to do something ridiculously expensive on a whim. They lost an enormous amount of money, rushing away from the South and his living. And for what? Gossip? There will always be gossip. Oh, he hides behind his 'hypocritical sermons' and his wanting to be a better man; but what he really did was please himself and no one else. He doesn't care that Mother hates it here. It was only luck that Margaret enjoys Milton, and disliked London enough not miss it. But it all worked out perfectly for Father, didn't it? Mother spends all her time alone so that he can just be with his bloody books; and now his daughter's about to be out of his hair too, finding herself a rich husband, as if one's only goal in life is to be _goddamn_ married!"

Fred had worked himself into a passion, practically spitting with fury by then end of his rant. He blew out an angry breath, his eyes blazing.

John had no idea how to respond to this outburst. That wasn't the impression he got of the Hales at all. In his mind, Mr. Hale was a quiet, scholarly man who was comforted by his faith; his wife seemed to actually prefer to be alone or with her maid. They did not seem keen to push Margaret out of their house, nor did it appear they were struggling grievously for money. The indirect comment about their upcoming nuptials also irritated John. Marriage wasn't Margaret's goal; in fact, she hadn't even been thinking of it until John suggested it.

Fred threw his cigarette butt down to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. "I apologize," he said quietly, his expression dimming. "I didn't mean to disparage you or Margaret. On the contrary, I think you're incredibly well suited for each other. They two of you are doing more than just getting married; you're forming a partnership, and I admire that. I was… more referring to myself. Father made a comment to me the other day, about my settling down, and I've been in a temper ever since."

"He's trying to force an engagement on you?" asked John, perplexed.

Fred barked out a harsh laugh. "In all but deed. He thinks a wife and responsibility will make me more stable. But I would hate it, I know I would. I'd grow resentful and that wouldn't be fair on the lady, whoever she was. That's why I hate coming home; always feeling the weight of expectations on me, even though they never say the words. My parents would never understand how I feel. Margaret does, somewhat, but she actually does something to help herself, whereas I… can't."

"Why not?" asked John quietly.

"Because there's nothing I can do that will help," he bit out. "And I'm not saying that to be dramatic. I've tried for years."

"No one can force you to get married, you know," John reminded him. "Not even your parents."

"I know. That's the only thing that's keeping me sane."

When John next saw Margaret, he disquietly told her about Fred's unhappiness and the view he had on his family. Margaret listened intently, but didn't seem that alarmed.

"I'm not surprised he thinks that way. He has a much different relationship with Mama and Papa than I do. He has more in common with Mama, with that kind of life. Papa doesn't like that Fred is not religious or bookish like him, and Fred resents him for that. I'm sure he and Fred have rows about many other things I'm not privy to. But I also know for a fact that Papa's comment about marriage was a passing remark, not a command, as Fred imagines."

"Is he much given to exaggeration?" asked John.

"I don't know if it's exaggeration. He likely just feels things differently than others do. In his mind, it is terrible. But he'll bounce back, once something else captures his attention."

Margaret's assessment proved to be correct. Fred was perfectly amenable after that, and made no reference to his previous outburst. John wondered if it was because it had passed, or because something much more sinister was simply looming on the horizon.

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.

.

*Authors Note: In the Victorian era, there were four ways to get married: publishing banns (announced three Sundays in a row in church), for the poor, an ordinary license from one's local clergyman (at the cost of 2-3 pounds), a civil license from the superintendent-register (for Jews, Catholics and Dissenters), or a special license that permitted the couple to be married any place and time and cost an enormous 28 guineas – around a years rent for the middle class.

*Authors Note 2: A solicitor was a middle class occupation, as opposed to a barrister, which was an upper class position. The wives and daughters of barristers were eligible to be presented at court, while the daughters and wives of solicitors were not.


	25. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing"

Since their engagement was going to be a long one, John decided he should buy Margaret an engagement ring, something simple to commemorate their union. He thought the task would be complicated since he didn't know what to look for, but he found exactly what he wanted on a whim, almost as if he had been destined to find it.

He'd gone to York for the day to supervise the shipment of the last of the machines he'd ordered. The previous order had been delivered haphazardly in his mind. Luckily, nothing had been damaged, but he didn't want to take any chances and so had gone to York to watch the crates being packed himself. Walking back to the train station that afternoon, John passed a jewelry store and the elegant display had caught his eye.

The window was decorated for winter; felt coverings mimicking snowy hills and valleys, paper snowflakes pasted to the glass. There were only three items shown in the window, one of them a ring that was perfect for Margaret. It was made of silver, the delicate metal wrought into a wreath of ivy. John liked it instantly and knew it was perfect for Margaret's tastes.

He quickly went into the shop and inquired after the ring. The shopkeeper applauded his choice and congratulated John on his upcoming marriage. The man asked if John wanted to take the ring now or bring Margaret in to have it sized. John asked to take it now, wanting Margaret to have the ring immediately. If it didn't fit, he'd have a Milton jewelry size it. But John knew instinctively that it would not be needed. The ring was created for Margaret, and her alone.

He carried the ring anxiously in his pocket for a few days. He wanted the moment to be perfect. Finally, after his lesson, the rest of the Hales left the drawing room, giving the new couple privacy. John had tried to think of a romantic way to present her with the ring but decided to continue their theme of straightforwardness and simply whispered that he had purchased an engagement ring, took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger, then brought her hand up to his mouth to kiss.

"It's beautiful! Thank you, John," she sighed happily. She stretched out her hand so they could both admire it. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I found it in York, quite by accident. But I knew that it had been made for you."

"I love it; it's just what I would've chosen for myself."

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With Mr. Hale's permission, John often took Margaret out during his free evenings, as they were both busy during the day. They went to a few music halls – more for Margaret's enjoyment – occasionally bringing Fanny along. They went to the small theatre twice, but neither show turned out to be to their tastes. They did enjoy critiquing the performance as they left, debating good-naturally about the themes of the play.

He and Margaret also did things that were not ordinary courtships activities. Margaret came to the mill every day for a fortnight, where John took her through all points of the business. He explained how the books were managed, the expenditures and profits, how contracts came in and were delivered, how random samples of cloth were tested for quality. Local craftsman came to him in person for orders, larger firms or ones in London and abroad sent letters and notes of credit for the guarantee of product. He showed her how his office was organized, what tasks he delegated to Williams, how the workers were hired and paid.

Margaret knew very little about business matters, but she was a quick study. At her request, John gave her books on business and the machines manuals. He showed her his ledgers from the past five years and explained the few prior mistakes he had made and how he solved them, how he increased profit, how his money was stored and invested. She asked him numerous questions, some he hadn't even thought about before. They spent hours discussing the merits and deficiencies of how the mill was run, and John enjoyed every minute of it.

Together, the wrote up projections for the coming year, based on the payoff from the Exhibition. Margaret wanted her next project to be the schoolhouse. They two of them toured the mill over, tallying up all the workers' children who would use the service. Margaret wanted to have the building constructed at the furthest point from the mill, so that the noise would be less disruptive. She drew the plan for the building herself, with the schoolroom in one half and the infant's room in the other, in a similar design to the foundling home. Her imagination ran wild and John had to regretfully reject her more creative ideas, such as a play area, as the space simply wasn't big enough to accommodate it.

Unlike the mess hall, it would take a while to implement the schoolhouse. His finances drained from the expansion, John wouldn't have the funds for it until July or August at the earliest. Instead of lamenting this, Margaret was determined that every detail be perfect, since she had so much time to deliberate on it.

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At Margaret's insistence, Mrs. Thornton was invited to the Hales again, so that the three women could begin again with the planning of the wedding. Margaret implored Mama to be civil, which was, but only by saying very little, which was hardly an improvement.

The date set, the two families made lists of the people they wished to invite. All of the Thorntons guests were local, and the only guests who would be required to travel for the wedding was the Hales family. Edith's family of course, the Shaws, and Mama insisted on inviting her siblings and Papa's brothers as well, despite Margaret's protests that she hardly knew them. Edith was the only cousin close in age to Margaret, all her other cousins being almost twenty years older than the two of them.

Margaret decided to only have Sarah as her bridesmaid, despite the two elder women protesting that it was more fashionable to have four bridesmaids. Margaret didn't have any other close girlfriends; Edith would be unable to act as bridesmaid being so far away. Fanny was not suggested by either party, as both knew that arrangement would only lead to difficulties. Margaret had called on Fanny a few times since her engagement and invited her to a few evenings out with John, but Fanny was no more accommodating towards her soon-to-be sister. She knew John had also asked his family to be more courteous, but so far, only his mother was following his order, albeit with badly concealed reluctance. Margaret knew that Mrs. Thornton would have likely been warmer towards her if not for Mama's unkind comments. Margaret reasoned that once the wedding was over and space put between the elder women, then she could focus on appeasing her mother-in-law.

On one of these visits, John came with his mother so that he could offer Margaret support as they announced that they wanted a church wedding by ordinary license. Margaret knew he had spoken to her about the church venue before, but Mrs. Thornton was still insisting on a special license.

"We don't need to have a special license, we already know the time and place we're getting married," John told her firmly.

"A special license would speak more about your position in society," argued Mrs. Thornton.

"The wedding will be grand enough without it," Margaret insisted. "We'll make sure of it. An ordinary license will be fine."

Mrs. Thornton pursed her lips and wanted to keep protesting, but John and Margaret were steadfast, so she countered it by insisting on a large number of other extravagances – two separate carriages, one for arrival and one for departure from the church, and an enormous amount of decorations and food.

"Cutlets of course, and lobster… pheasants… we ought to serve duck as well, in case the pheasants don't take…"

Margaret let Mrs. Thornton plan the menu as she liked, as a compromise. She suggested enough fashionable dishes that Mama could not object. Margaret made her preferences known about the kind of flowers she wanted, Mrs. Thornton thankfully agreeing with her, and the visit passed much more smoothly than the last one.

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At the end of February, John took Margaret to see the completed tenement. It was only a short walk from the mill, convenient for the Irish tenants. The façade of the building was nothing particularly exciting, but the apartments inside were exactly as she envisioned.

They were large enough for a family to live comfortably and all had modern facilities. The rooms smelt of sawdust and metal, emphasizing how new they were. She was pleased to note that the rooms were quite warm already, even without the fires going. The windows had been built to seal out the freezing wind. That was one of the major issues that was a failing of the houses in Princeton. Margaret tread slowly through the building, admiring everything. Each of the apartments had been papered in one of the five choices, Margaret having collected the names and preferences of the occupants a few weeks ago. The workers were eager to vacate their current residences and Margaret was satisfied they were finally able to. Now that the building was complete, they would begin moving in tomorrow.

John followed behind her, watching her inspection contently. "You are pleased?" he asked.

"Absolutely! It's wonderful. It's exactly what the workers need; it will vastly improve their standard of living. You have done a grand thing, John."

" _We_ have," he emphasized. "It's more your achievement than mine. Which is why I've made you the overseer of the building."

Margaret stopped. "Me?" she asked, surprised.

"Of course, who else? You'd do it marvelously."

"But I wouldn't know what to do! I don't know anything about being a landlord… landlady."

John chuckled. "It's nothing complicated. You'd be their point of contact for any issues that they have; exactly what you've been doing for the workers now. You'd organize repairs and manage the leases of the residents, and collect the rents."

"I didn't think they were being charged rent," replied Margaret, a little confused. John wasn't using this building for profit.

"No, not a full sum. Only two shillings per family a week, enough for the tax on the building and a repair fund. I've already told the Irish that. We should be able to break even each year."

"Oh. That's quite fair." Margaret made a face. "I may have to rely on your help in the beginning. I didn't even think of things like that; the tax and such."

"Aye, certainly. I will help with whatever you need," he told her earnestly. He was leaning against the wall leisurely, one of his legs crossed over the other, grinning widely at her. She stared at his casual stance, pleased that he was as happy in her company as she was in his. They'd only been able to be alone together these past few months, and she'd been a little apprehensive as to whether it would change their dynamic. But it had only strengthened their connection, being able to speak openly with each other without the threat of prying ears.

He saw her inspection of him and seemed to know what she was thinking. John held his hand out to her, pulling Margaret closer to him when she took it. He fluttered his fingers from her temple to her jaw, using the momentum to guide her towards him for a kiss. His skin was still cold from the snow outside, but his mouth was beautifully warm. She pressed her lips to his eagerly and was rewarded by a contented sound from him.

They broke the kiss, but kept their bodies close together. John toyed with a lock of her hair that had come lose from her chignon.

"There is another errand I had planned to do with you today," he told her softly, his gaze intent.

"Which was?" she whispered.

"Buying you a wedding ring. I know some men chose the ring themselves, but I don't entirely trust my own judgment."

"You should. My engagement ring is perfect," she told him, balling her left hand so she could feel the press of the ring beneath her glove.

"That was just luck," he smiled.

"Has your luck has run out then?"

"Good god, I hope not."

Margaret laughed. "Very well, but I can't promise to know what to look for. I've never purchased a ring before. Most women I know received a ring from the husband's family; which always seemed a little morose to me. The weight of family expectations on your finger to remind you every day, and your new mother-in-law without the ring she's been wearing for the last twenty years. That would hardly foster affection between the two of you."

"I wanted to start anew, rather than bring old memories into our union. I never thought to ask Mother about her wedding ring," replied John with a small frown.

"I've no wish to take it from her. Your idea is much more suitable for us," Margaret assured him. "And it would make her feel like I'm usurping her position in the household, and I don't want that."

They spent the remainder of the day visiting the few jewelry stores Milton had. Many of the rings had snake motifs, a symbol of eternal love. Margaret liked this sentiment, but lamented that a snake was the emblem. The jeweler in the second store persisted in recommending overly large or convoluted styles that Margaret knew would make her already small hands look even more comical; not to mention getting caught on her clothes constantly.

Some used multiple gemstones to spell out words such as 'love' or dearest'. They were told that they could also have a ring custom made to spell out the husband's name. Upon seeing John's appalled expression at this pronouncement, Margaret burst out laughing and told the offended jeweler that it was not what they were looking for.

There was a plain band with a line of tiny pearls pressed into it that she kept coming back to. Another lovely one was a single diamond held to the band by thin points of gold. She also browsed with John's finances in mind. He told her price was no object, but the practical side of her protested at the absurd sum that the jewelers stated for some of the rings.

In the third store, Margaret found what she was looking for. The jeweler here was much more accommodating than the previous one. After Margaret told him she wanted a simple style that would compliment her build, he disappeared into his workshop and returned with a ring wrapped in velvet.

"I only finished this recently. I think it's exactly what you 'ave described."

It was. The band was silver, like her engagement ring, with a small diamond in the centre and eight tinier diamonds surrounding it. It was understated but still quietly beautiful and Margaret loved it instantly.

"That's the handsomest one we've seen so far," John agreed. He lifted it from the velvet cloth and slid it onto Margaret's left hand; her engagement ring having been moved to her right hand for the errand. "It suits you perfectly."

"Wonderful!" said the jeweler happily. "Diamonds are always a good choice. Enduring love, ya know."

"And my birthstone," Margaret stated.

"A good omen then," replied the jeweler, his eyes twinkling. "It'll 'ave to be resized, but ya can pick it up in a few weeks. Do ya want it engraved also?"

"Aye, perhaps with the date of the wedding," replied John thoughtfully.

"So I don't forget it?" Margaret giggled.

"Exactly," he grinned.

Both of them content with her choice, the ring was purchased and a card supplied with the date of the wedding for the engraving.

After John had returned her back home, Margaret excitedly described the ring to her mother; Mama, predictably, objecting to the purchasing of a new ring when tradition dictated that Margaret ought to receive Mrs. Thornton's ring.

"That's not a rule, Mama. Many couples buy rings new."

"Not in distinguished families," Mama sniffed.

Margaret huffed angrily, tired of having the same fight with her mother. Mama took every opportunity to disparage Margaret's new family.

"Mama, why can't you be happy for me? Can't you just be pleased that I am marrying a man I love, just as you did?"

"I had the sense to love a man from my own circle," Mama retorted.

Margaret shot to her feet and stormed down to the kitchen; she vented her frustrations by scrubbing vigorously at the washing, muttering darkly under her breath. Caoimhe found her an hour later, still in a temper.

"If ya scrub at that sheet any 'arder, you're goin' to tear a hole in it," she said matter-of-factly.

Margaret angrily threw the wet sheet into the wash tub and put her hands on her hips. Now that she'd stopped, she could feel how sore her hands were.

"Is it Mrs. Hale again?" Caoimhe asked carefully.

"Yes. She has not outright cut me, but she never misses an opportunity to air her stupid little comments. I want to go and demand she tell me one way or another, but I don't want to start _another_ fight."

"Is she tryin' to get ya to call off the weddin'?"

"I don't think so. That would also be scandalous. I don't know _what_ she's trying to achieve, other than irritate me. Perhaps I will tell her I will never speak to her again if she doesn't stop!"

Margaret knew she was being irrational in her fury; she wouldn't really be so unkind to her mother. But it was satisfying to say the words aloud, test them in her mouth while her anger was still burning.

"It ain't right what your mother is doin' to ya, adding to your stress like this. Mebbe you ought to talk to ya father, see if 'e will put a stop to it."

Margaret blew out an angry breath. "Maybe I shall. Later though, when I've calmed down."

Papa was sympathetic, and spoke with Mama, who in turn sullenly stated that she wouldn't disparage Margaret's fiancé any longer. She kept her promise, but her expressions didn't change; she still regarded John with a hostile air whenever he visited, casting a pall on the new couple.

Walking out together a few days later, John quietly asked her if everything was alright between Margaret and her mother.

"Not really. She is being difficult, and to no end that I can see. She doesn't want me to break with you, as that would cause even more scandal. And I don't think she wants to cut me, not really. But she's venting her feelings in the only way she knows how."

John brought her hand to his mouth to kiss, chasing away most of Margaret's irritation with a single touch. She sighed contently and threaded her fingers through his.

"I think it will be better once we go away for our wedding trip, and I leave the house," said Margaret in a calmer voice. "Once we have some space between us, things are bound to improve."

"And then you will have Mother and her snide remarks to deal with," lamented John. "I'm sorry, my love, that you must bear the burden of all this. You are giving up so much, as well as having all the displeasure directed at you. I'm so sorry."

Margaret squeezed his hand. "Don't apologize, I don't feel that way. It is frustrating now, but after we are married, things will sort themselves out."

John still looked sad, so Margaret quickly stretched up and kissed him. He smiled despite himself and gathered her in his arms.

"Speaking of a wedding trip, is there anywhere in particular you had in mind?" he asked, a little hesitant.

Margaret didn't understand the reason for his hesitancy, but said comfortably; "I was thinking Yorkshire. I know it's fashionable to go abroad but I've always been fascinated with the moorlands and I'd like to visit. Besides, all our projects for the mill are still underway and we ought to be close enough that we are able to return if there is some emergency. We can always go abroad another time."

John's eyes widened and he gave a little laugh. "That was exactly what I was thinking. Not Yorkshire in particular, but staying close by, for that very reason. I loathed to put such a restriction on you, but again, you've shown how in sync we are by suggesting it first. How perfect you are."

It was Margaret's turn to laugh. "I'm definitely not that! But it will be wonderful, so long as I am with you."

She was determined to make the trip as entertaining as possible, as John had not been on a vacation since he was a child and deserved to have a bit of fun in his life.

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*Authors Note: I wanted to make their engagement longer when I realized that John and Margaret have only known each other less than a year at this point. But I also wanted to keep the story moving forward. And in the Victorian era, it was almost required that women be married after their first season to save the expense of a second; and Margaret is almost 21 at this point and her first season was at 18. And without the physical aspects of dating, there is only so much you can learn about your compatibility with your partner. So I let them get married quickly. They are both unimpeachably truthful as well, which made it easier; no skeletons in the closet that would come out later to devastate them.

And there is something pleasing about being married to someone while you learn more about your relationship with them. It would cause you to work through all your problems, rather than cutting and running when things get tough.


	26. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it"

"I will only be gone for two weeks, darling. And London is not that far away."

"It is definitely too far, and too long," said John, lifting his fingers to brush her jaw. Margaret smiled and leaned into his touch.

"I cannot refuse Edith this, she has asked me so kindly. She is almost a sister to me; I must visit to see her first child."

A few weeks ago, Margaret had joyfully received the news that Edith had given birth to a baby boy. She had wanted to rush down to London immediately to see her cousin but Edith had asked her to wait until she had recovered fully, then happily invited Margaret to visit her and her new baby.

John looked at her disquietly. "You'll not forget me while you're gone?" he said softly.

"Never! I won't have the chance to, I'll not be gone long enough. I won't even be gone long enough to merit sending you a letter!" she teased.

"I most definitely deserve a letter!" he protested. "If I must go two weeks without talking to you, I must get letters at least, to tide me over."

"Very well. One. But if I arrive home before it, you'll owe me."

"I will owe you gladly, if only to hear you say 'home' again," smiled John.

"I will come _home_ to you soon," Margaret laughed. John grinned and gave her a quick kiss.

Margaret found herself becoming increasingly frustrated by these kisses; they were too chaste, too brief. Ever since she realized that she loved him, she knew that polite affections would not satisfy her. She wanted to drown in love, not merely sip at it.

She wondered if she ought to bring it up with him, but loathed to introduce any discord into their engagement. She knew too, that it was most likely unseemly of her to speak of it. She did not want him to think that of her. Margaret couldn't definitively tell if John was restraining himself physically or not. He was such a reserved person; he never let his emotions run away with him, unlike her.

He lent his forehead to hers and gave a contented sigh. Margaret resolved to leave the matter for now. Perhaps he _was_ restraining himself, not wanting to push her. She kissed him, longer this time, and when they drew apart, he was grinning.

"Will you let me take you to the station when you go?" he asked.

"Of course. I should be glad of it."

"Is Fred escorting you?"

"No, Mr. Bell will. He has business in London for a few days."

John made a face. "Two long train journeys with no one but Mr. Bell to talk to. I don't envy you that."

"Yes, I shall bring a book with me. Hopefully that will discourage him from making conversation," laughed Margaret.

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It didn't work. From the moment the two of them were dropped off at the station, Mr. Bell talked continuously. Margaret was driven to talk with him through sheer exhaustion of being spoken _at_. He also asked her a number of questions about her upcoming wedding, as well as questions about the detailed workings of John's finances and assets, which Margaret found intrusive and uncomfortable to discuss with Mr. Bell.

Margaret arrived at Edith's house utterly drained from her journey. She soon forgot her worries however, glad to be reunited with her cousin. Edith looked the picture of health. Edith put it down to the excellent wet nurse she had engaged, who was a wonder with the infant Gabriel. After tea, Gabriel was brought down from the nursery to be cooed over by the two women.

"He looks just like Charles," announced Edith proudly, with a simpering glace at the Captain.

"Indeed he does," replied Margaret docilely, because she knew that was what she was supposed to say. To her eyes, the baby didn't look like anyone at all. He had no hair to speak of and a very red face due his wailing. He did look healthy though, which was what mattered.

Margaret held Gabriel happily, bouncing him slightly so that his cries ceased. He was warm and smelt of milk, and that curious scent all babies seem to have. Margaret could not help thinking of her future children as she held him. Her and John's children. The thought brought a smile to her face. They'd all look like him, she had not doubt of that. His dark hair and serious expression. She pictured a small toddler scowling at her from beneath his dark curls, and almost laughed out loud.

Edith had not left the house since her lying-in and was glad to finally be well enough to resume her activities. Despite the fact it was only mid March and the season would not start until after Easter, she had planned several exciting outings for the two of them.

"It'll be just like old times," said Edith happily. Margaret did not remind her cousin that she had not really enjoyed going to the theatre or paying calls on Edith's many friends, because it was only a short visit and she did not want to upset her.

Their first day was spent attending a matinee, then a supper, then a dance arranged by a friend of the Captain's. Margaret had brought Caoimhe with her so that she might beginning training her as a ladies' maid. She had come to adore the funny girl and did not want to leave her behind in Crampton when she started her new life. Caoimhe was thrown in the deep end, as Margaret needed to change her clothes several times a day due to the intense schedule Edith kept for them.

A picnic was planned in Hyde Park, a musical evening, several small supper parties and a ride along the Ladies' Mile. The two women also spent several days shopping, as Edith wanted new clothes now that her figure had returned. Margaret also bought some things while they shopped, but nothing that a dressmaker would have to make. Margaret also insisted that they visit Hatchards bookstore in Piccadilly; she had a list of titles she could not find in Milton and wanted to stock up.

After only a week in London, Margaret was ready to go home. She was surprised by the forcefulness of the pain she felt at missing John. She felt half a person without him, even though he was only a few hours away. She'd found some time one afternoon to write to him, detailing all the anecdotes about her visit that she could think of, but it had not eased the ache one bit. If anything, it only served to reminded her that they were separated by such a distance that it necessitated a letter.

Margaret did not tell Edith about her engagement. The invitations would not be sent out for another month at least; she'd write to Edith just before they did and tell her then. She did not want gossip to be bandied about yet, in case something happened to delay the wedding. She also did not want to to take away Edith's thunder; this was the first fun her cousin had had in ages.

Margaret scrutinized how the Captain and Edith interacted more closely now she herself was in love. They loved each other, that was clear, but they did not spend a great deal of time in each others company. The Captain was often at his club or out on business, and he and Edith seemed to have different circles of friends, with only a few overlapping. It did not seem to Margaret that Charles was restraining himself; his detachment was simply how it was. Edith clearly didn't mind. She spoke happily with him when he was about, but when he wasn't, she didn't seem bothered.

It brought to mind her relationship with John. She did not want theirs to be like this. She could not abide Edith's way of making the rounds with dozens of superfluous acquaintances. Margaret had only a few close intimates that she loved deeply. As John was one of them, Margaret wanted to spend all of her time with him; his leaving at the end of their time together was agonizing. She wondered too, about Edith's private life with the Captain. Did they have a passionate relationship? It did not seem likely to Margaret.

On a rare afternoon of quiet, Edith and Margaret were alone, the Captain having left and no one had paid Edith a call. Margaret decided to take the opportunity to ask her cousin what married life was like.

"Oh it's marvelous! The Captain lets me do exactly as I wish, and spend what I like. Did you see the amethyst pendant he gave me after Gabriel was born? Isn't it just enchanting?"

"Yes, very lovely," Margaret agreed, obligingly observing the necklace Edith dangled in front of her. "But I meant your life _together_. When you are together… in private."

"Oh," said Edith, her smile disappearing.

"Don't tell me if you are uncomfortable," Margaret urged. "I was only curious. I know nothing about it, you see, and I want to be prepared for when my own marriage comes."

Edith simpered at that, giving Margaret a pitying look. "Don't worry Margaret, your time will come soon enough. You're still young," she said loftily, as though they were years apart in age, not months. It seemed the reference to Margaret's innocence had caused Edith to assume an air of great importance; she was knowledgeable in this subject and Margaret was not. That realization made her come across as condescending as a result.

"First of all, it's quite painful the first time, and the pressure of it inside you can be quite forceful. But if your husband is as affable as mine, it will not be hard to bear. The encounters are not long, and the Captain, of course, is not demanding; he only came to me a few times, before I got with child. We both know that it is something that must be endured, so that one may have children."

That explanation did not ease Margaret's misgivings. She did not want to endure, she wanted to be _engulfed_. Whenever John kissed her, she felt a swooping sensation in her belly and a fizziness in her fingertips. It was not from embarrassment; it was from desire. She'd realized that after the first time she'd dreamt of him; when she had woken with a flush of feeling and his name on her lips.

"But… is it not enjoyable?" she asked, her brow knitting together.

"Not particularly," said Edith disdainfully, "The Captain makes me as comfortable as he can, but the sensation is more bothersome than anything."

"Does he enjoy himself?"

Edith gave her an odd look. "I'm sure I don't know. He's always pleasant, so I believe so. And he always leaves my room shortly afterwards, so that I might sleep well."

"You don't sleep in the same bed?" asked Margaret, surprised.

"Of course not!" trilled Edith. "How could I be comfortable sharing a bed? Why, I'd hardly sleep a wink! I need to have my own space, and he does to. He prefers his own rooms as well, so that we can both have privacy from each other." She gave Margaret a patronizing pat on the knee. "You'll see. When you are married, you'll understand what I mean."

"And you feel this way, even though you love him?"

"Yes. It is not proper to feel anything else. Only loose women are unable to control themselves in this matter."

Margaret flushed. That was was she was worried about. Did her desires mean she was lacking in some way? Was she not supposed to feel this? It seemed inconceivable to her that these reactions were forbidden, especially as she was unable to control that curious ache she felt deep inside her, no more than she could stop herself from feeling her lungs expand when she breathed.

She knew love and sex where different things, and that one was not an expression of the other. Sex was needed to produce children, but love was a deep connection one formed with their spouse – if they were lucky enough. All married people had to engage in sex, but not all were in love.

But if she and John loved each other now, wouldn't that influence their intimate relationship once they began it? Love certainly influenced their current relationship. It made them want to spend all their time together, made them feel warmth and affection. They each reveled in the security of having a person with which to talk endlessly with, without judgment. John never made Margaret feel loud or uncomfortable; he seemed to find her chattering enchanting. In fact, if she wasn't talking, he _made_ her talk by asking her questions about anything and everything.

"Maybe if he came to you more often; perhaps practice would make it easier and more enjoyable for you," Margaret mused. One improved any task with practice, surely sex was the same.

"Margaret!" hissed Edith, offended. "How can you suggest so? I don't want such a thing. My friend Frances had confided in me that her husband almost suffocates her with his attentions; never a week goes by when he does not push himself on her. I could not bear that! I am perfectly happy with Charles. I am forever grateful he is not like that."

"Yes, of course. I didn't mean… I meant if something could be done to make it pleasurable. Don't you feel _something_ when you're together? An ache inside you, something building?"

Margaret flushed. She'd said more than she meant. She had been hoping that Edith could give her some insight into what she was feeling, but turned out the she did not feel as Margaret did.

"No. I've not felt anything like that, it would be improper. Being a wife means giving your husband children and taking care of a beautiful house for him to come home every day. Sex is a tiny part of being a wife. It is simply another chore one has. There are so many more important and altering decisions one has to make. Like next week, I am hosting a dinner party for Sir George Commerell, the Captain's superior, along with several other prominent people. If it is a success, the Captain may receive a promotion! Sir George's wife is an utter darling, such a wispy little thing…"

Edith brightened again, off on a tangent about a more comfortable topic. Margaret bit her lip. She had not gotten the answers she wanted, nor had she been made to feel better about her desires. She did not want a relationship like Edith described.

She wondered who else she might ask. Her mother was certainly not an option; she would have had the same opinions Edith did. Margaret considered asking Fred about it. He was certainly open-minded but might balk at talking about such things with his sister, if he didn't simply laugh himself into a fit.

Thinking back on her thoughts of earlier, she wondered if she ought to just speak to John about it. She needed to see if his distance towards her meant he was expecting the type of arrangement that Edith and the Captain had. She wondered what would happen to their relationship if he was. She loved him deeply, and would marry him not matter what. But she did not want resentment to rise out of any frustration on her part; or his, if it turned out she was doing something he disliked. She resolved to speak with him. She did not want to conceal things from her future husband.

.

Margaret's visit ended on a pleasing note. Edith had gotten her an early birthday gift for next month, an exquisite thin gold bangle inlaid with a tiny diamond. Edith had often lamented Margaret's luck of birthstone; her own was opal, which she disliked because it reminded her of elderly chaperones and a hated great aunt.

Mr. Bell was likewise more affable on the journey back to Milton. He was in a good mood; his errands having apparently gone well. He had a superior air about him, clearly hiding a secret. Margaret did not ask him what it was. If he was bursting to tell her something, let him be the one to bring it up.

John met them at the station. Margaret barely waited until the train had stopped before she flung open the door and raced into his welcoming embrace.

"I was going to ask if you missed me; clearly, I needn't have worried," he chuckled.

"I did miss you," she sighed, laying her head against his warm chest; she felt his chin lean on the top of her head. "I am glad to be back."

"Goodness, Margaret!" exclaimed Mr. Bell, watching the lanky porter struggle to heave her luggage onto the trolley. "What on earth did you buy?"

"Books," said Margaret and John together.

John laughed. "I knew you would. Did you get anything interesting?"

"Yes, some new novels and biographies. I got a book on Japanese culture that I cannot wait to read. I also bought you a few gifts; the works of Adam Smith and Voltaire. I remember you said you'd like to read them."

John looked deeply touched by the gesture. "Thank you, my love. I shall treasure them."

"Come on you two, stop making sheep's eyes at each other and let's get going," Mr. Bell called. John rolled his eyes and Margaret blushed.

In the carriage, sitting opposite the couple, Mr. Bell's gaze smug and calculating.

.

.

.

"Margaret, are you alright?" John asked his love, concerned. Ever since she'd arrived back from London a few days ago, she had been a little absentminded, lost in her own thoughts. He was nervous about that. He had not wanted her to go to London. In the glittering capital, away from all the smoke of Milton, would she fall for some man more handsome and richer than he?

He knew his jealous thoughts were irrational; Margaret had told him she loved him, and Milton. And he knew she'd not be turned off him in such a short about of time. But his fortnight had been torturous; he missed Margaret deeply and grew irritated with his lack of control; which caused him to lash out at Williams and several of his employees who'd been unfortunate enough to make a mistake.

Her long letter had been amusing and touching, but it was not enough. He'd felt as if there was a hole in his chest; his heart torn out and taken with her. As soon as he had touched her again, held her in his arms, the feeling vanished and he could breathe once more. It told him that he would never be able to let her go again. Even now, John did not want to leave the sanctuary of the Hales drawing room; but it was growing dark and he had to return home.

They had been chatting together happily, but once her family had left the room tactfully, so that they might talk privately, Margaret became uncharacteristically quiet, her hand gripping his tightly. Her silence worried him, driving him to ask her what was wrong. He refused to think it was something terrible to do with their engagement; he would not let his mind go down that path.

"I was just thinking," said Margaret softly, turning his palm up so that she might smooth her fingers across it.

"What about?"

"I… spoke to Edith about her married life. I wanted to know what it was like and whether she was happy. She told me she was, and I do believe her. Her husband, Charles, is a kind man and I know he loves her."

"But?" he probed, knowing there was more.

Margaret flushed, which surprised him. "Their relationship seemed so… respectful."

His brow creased in confusion. "Is that a bad thing? Marriage ought to be based on respect."

"Yes, of course! But just respect? Surely a marriage should be about communication and attentiveness, and supporting each other and pass–" She stopped, going even more red.

"Passion?" he asked, picking out the half-formed word. Margaret just nodded numbly.

"You… feel… desire when we are together?" he whispered. He desperately hoped that she did. He'd been so careful so far, not wanting to shock her with his attentions. If it was too much for her and she was not ready, he'd stop immediately. Although the thought of not touching her was agony, the thought of losing her was more so.

"I do," she gasped in anguish, mistaking his meaning. "Every time you touch me or press your lips to mine, I feel like I can't breathe; like I'm going to leap out of my skin. I dream about you almost every night. Even now, just sitting here close to you, I feel something so intense, as though I'll die from wanting you this much–" She stopped herself again, clearly mortified. Her hand jerked out of his as she covered her face in shame and half turned away from him. "I'm sorry," she moaned. "I know it's improper to speak of."

"God, no, it's not shameful," he crooned, pulling her against him and wrapping his arms around her. He held her tightly for a few moments, reveling in her words. "It is just as I feel. _Exactly_ as I feel," he breathed.

Margaret's muffled voice sounded from beneath his embrace, "You don't think me improper for feeling this way?"

"Of course not! I'm so glad that you feel this way. I want you to be passionate about me, just as you are about everything else."

Margaret sat up then, her face still flaming. "You want a passionate marriage? When we are together physically?"

John closed his eyes at the thought, hugging her close to him. "I do. I want you in every way that you want to give yourself to me. I want you deeply, ardently. _Every_ possible way."

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. I was… nervous because you seemed so hesitant when you kissed me. I was afraid you only wanted polite affection, as Edith and her husband do."

John chuckled. "Believe me, my love; my thoughts about you are certainly not of the polite kind. I was being careful. I did not want to push you beyond what was comfortable for you."

"Thank you. Truly. That _is_ what I wanted before. But now… now that I know how I feel, and how you feel… I find myself wanting more," she said softly, her gaze affectionate; and expectant.

John cupped her face in his hand. He stared into her fiery eyes, then slid his gaze down to her lips. He brushed his thumb across them, marveling at their fullness. He pressed his lips to hers, gently at first, then slowly increased the pressure. After a few moments, he slid his tongue against the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth instinctively and he traced his tongue against hers, tasting her for the first time.

Margaret gasped at the sensation. After a few moments of exploration, he drew back and let her take over the kiss, so that she could taste him as well. The kiss became more intense; she was soon sitting in his lap, their hands tangled in each other's hair.

Finally, he tore his mouth from hers, panting wildly. "We must stop."

"Yes," she agreed breathlessly. "And you must go, though I don't want you to." They were both quiet, trying to get their breathing back under control. "I'll only let you leave if you promise to always kiss me like that from now on," she said archly.

He laughed. "Deal."

.

.

.

At the invitation of Mrs. Thornton, Margaret visited the manor to attend to more wedding plans. Fanny sat in the corner and offered plenty of advice. Although Mrs. Thornton had many ideas that matched Margaret's tastes, but she was a little railroading in her pitching of them, which Margaret found irksome.

The drawing room was still the same as it had been when she first saw it. Much nicer and more inviting that Mrs. Thornton's stuffy parlor. The walls were papered in a brilliant red silk print. The furnishings were mahogany and done over with red upholstery. Several paintings hung on the walls, both landscapes and portraits, which pleased the artist in her. The one in the place of pride over the fireplace was an oil portrait of Mrs. Thornton and her husband, the infant Fanny and the boy John. Even at eleven, John had been serious, his brows knitted together in a small frown. His father had a warm expression and a smile danced on his lips. Margaret loved this portrait. A glimpse into John's life, a tiny whisper of who he was and how he had grown into the person she loved now.

Margaret knew drawing rooms were the ladies' domain, but she couldn't help wondering if John had been the one to design this room. It was more to his tastes than Fanny or his mother's.

The calling cards of two of the most prominent women in Milton were displayed in proudly on the mantle piece. It was no doubt Fanny's doing; Mrs. Thornton was a social climber but was not so vulgar about it, and John couldn't care two shakes for society. That he was wealthy and well thought of was a by-product of his ambition, not what drove it.

"We'll hold the reception here. It's less traditional but there is more space than at your parent's house," stated Mrs. Thornton, cutting into Margaret's musings.

"Although all your gifs will look much smaller here in this drawing room than in your tiny one," Fanny supplied.

"Which style of invitation do you like best?" Mrs. Thornton asked. "I will have them sent to be engraved on Thursday." Margaret examined the samples on the table and chose a picturesque one that had a gold oval around the typescript with a design of roses at the base.

"And here is the text for the wedding announcement. Does that suit?"

Mrs. Thornton was not one for ruminating on a decision; as soon as she had Margaret's opinion, she hurled the next question at her, as though this task was bothersome and therefore must be finished quickly. Only when they began discussing Margaret's wedding dress did Margaret feel she was making any headway with her new mother-in-law.

"Have you visited the dressmaker yet?" asked Mrs. Thornton.

"Yes, but I am not having something made. I asked Mrs. Nash to alter the bodice on my court gown so that it is more appropriate for a wedding dress."

"You're going to wear a cast-off dress?" asked Fanny, scandalized.

"It's hardly a cast-off; it's already mine," replied Margaret. "And I only wore it once. I helped the dressmaker design the alterations. It'll be very fashionable, I promise."

"Very well," sighed Mrs. Thornton. "And the veil?"

"You must wear one," interrupted Fanny loftily, as Margaret opened her mouth. "All church weddings must have a veil."

"Yes, I know," said Margaret carefully, trying not to grit her teeth. "I have purchased one already. I decided on a lovely cotton one with lace edging. It will be finished next week."

"You ought to have Honiton lace for your veil," Fanny stated. "That is far more fashionable. The Queen wore Honiton lace for her veil."

"I would rather use Milton craftsman. I am marrying a Milton man, after all." Margaret saw a glimmer of satisfaction in Mrs. Thornton's eyes before she turned back to her list.

Fanny sniffed disdainfully. "Well, when I get married I'll be ordering all my things from London. I'm going to travel to London to be fitted for my trousseau as well."

"Have you begun your trousseau?" asked Mrs. Thornton.

Margaret shifted uncomfortably. "Not quite yet. After the wedding gown is finished, I will make an appointment."

It was only a little lie. She _would_ buy a new travelling outfit, and perhaps a new summer gown, but the Hales did not have enough money to spare for Margaret to be properly outfitted for a trousseau. She and Caoimhe had been altering a few of Margaret's current gowns with new cuffs and embroidery, but her wedding dress had cost quite a substantial amount of money, even though it was only being altered. But she did want to have enough items to bring with her. She didn't want to immediately begin spending all of John's money on clothes, even though he likely wouldn't care if she did.

All of the wedding details firmly in place, Margaret took her leave. The invitations would be sent out soon, which meant that she would have to write to Edith. As soon as she was home, Margaret sat at her writing desk and began to draft the letter, before she lost her nerve. She started by telling Edith about John and the kind of person he was. She wrote about the mill and how excited she was to work there with him. She then crumbled up the paper and began again, knowing that Edith wouldn't like to hear that Margaret would be spending her life working in a factory. She instead wrote that she and John had been working together to improve the mill and that he made her overseer of the tenement, but then angrily crossed it out, since Edith would likely see that as insulting, him making his wife work for him. Margaret screwed up the page and tossed it aside in frustration. She couldn't get the words right on paper. When she wrote down how excited she was about all the hard work she'd be doing after her marriage, it just came out that she was committing herself to a life of drudgery.

"What's the matter with you?" Fred asked her, coming into the room. He bent down to pick up her discarded balls of paper.

"I'm trying to write to Edith about John, but I can't get the words right. I can't write what it is I really feel."

Fred smoothed out the papers and read them with a frown. His eyes flitted over the passages quickly, then he gave her a lopsided smile. "It's because you're trying to influence her opinion on him. Just starting at the beginning and tell her everything about the two of you."

"But I do need to influence her opinion! I need her on my side; I need her to accept John as my husband."

"She won't if you only tell her half the story," Fred replied sagely. "You can't begin by saying that he made you a landlord without telling her it was your idea to help the Irish. Or tell her about the mill without explaining that you're building a schoolhouse there. Either tell her everything or tell her nothing, but don't pick little bits and leave the rest out."

Margaret thought on this. Fred was right. She'd been trying to convey how excited she was about the projects she'd planned without explaining how they had come about. She fiddled with her pen for a long while, thinking, then started on a fresh sheet of paper. She started right at the beginning, with the day she and John had met. She wrote down everything. Sometimes she repeated herself or told Edith things she'd already heard, but Margaret didn't stop to edit anything. She wanted Edith to know all this.

Margaret wanted to explain how she had come to realize how kind and thoughtful John was, even if it wasn't always obvious. That he made her happier than she ever believed she could be. That he was offering her a life that was perfect for her. That she wouldn't see it as a burden or as drudgery but a beautiful challenge – to her intellect and her way of life. That she _was_ going to defy convention by marrying him, but that was exactly what she wanted and would be all the better for it.

.

.

.

The last of the finished machines had finally been delivered, frustratingly a week behind schedule. John helped the workers unload the crates and take the equipment into the mill. Production had been halted yesterday and today so that everyone could focus on maneuvering everything inside. Under John's strict guidance, the task was completed in good time. He had mapped out the plan of the rooms and where the machines would be placed, saving time once everything was delivered. He, Higgins, Williams and a few other select few stayed back after six to make sure everything was ready to be powered up tomorrow.

John had asked these men to stay behind specifically, having an ulterior motive. The increase in workforce would necessitate more superintendents, and John had a mind to promote Higgins and two others he had his eye on. He had given the men unofficial leadership these past few days, wanting to see how they would handle the increased responsibility. One of the men, Kavanagh, was a quiet man whom John liked very much. He was hardworking and unassuming; John had been surprised to learn the man had been an overseer back in Ireland. Kavanagh had no air of superiority about him and was quick to help others with a problem.

Higgins had been true to his word. He was a good worker and not a whisper of rebellion escaped him. John wanted to reward Higgins for honoring his promise, but also to help his adopted children. His daughter Bessy had left her post to care for the children, and John only had employment for the eldest child, Tom, who now worked with Higgins. The Higgins's income had been reduced as a result and, without the schoolhouse in operation, the family was stretched thin. The increase in wages as superintendent would go a long way to easing their burden.

"Hello, Thornton!"

John turned at the sound of his name, and saw Mr. Bell picking his way carefully though the cluttered shed, the broken crates and packing straw still needing to be cleaned up.

"Mind if I speak with you for a moment? You don't look to busy," he guffawed. John scowled at his tasteless joke. He nodded for his men to continue, then motioned for Mr. Bell to follow him. John used his already damp sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face.

Having walked a fair distance away from the noise, John turned to Mr. Bell and said; "You seem to be spending more of your time in Milton of late."

"Yes; business, you know. But not for much longer, which is actually what I'm here to talk you about. My physician has advised me to move to a warmer climate, for my health. He said it in a most jovial way, but you know doctors. They'll tell you you're dying with the widest smile on their face," said Mr. Bell comfortably.

"I'm sorry."

John was surprised at how sad he felt at this pronouncement. He had never liked Mr. Bell, but the man meant well and was a dear friend of the Hales.

"Oh, no matter. I've had a good run. And I shall enjoy South America immensely – good food, wine, the wonderful sun. I'm far luckier than most," Mr. Bell assured him. He dug into his carrycase and pulled out some papers which he showed to John.

"I have signed all my Milton properties to Fred Hale. Hopefully, some responsibility will force him to become more careful. I'm sure you'll be able to guide him in his business ventures. And left the bulk of my monies to Miss Margaret Hale." He gave John an amused look. "Fifteen thousand pounds. She's become quite the heiress."

John gaped at Mr. Bell. This was clearly the secret he'd been hiding. "How long have you been planning this?" he asked.

"Oh, for years; since she was a child. I wanted to do something for her – I have no other family and Richard is my oldest friend. I told him this morning, very emphatically. He tried to protest, but it's already done. I signed all the documents when I took Margaret to London. You've landed on your feet again, Thornton. A flood of money coming your way."

John bristled. "I am not marrying Margaret for her money."

"I know. Which is why I wanted until now to give it to her. I wanted to wait until she chose the man, to see if he was worthy. And give her the money in his stead if he was not."

"The money belongs to Margaret," John insisted. "I won't use it; I'll give her control of the account."

"I doubt Margaret will want to keep it like that," said Mr. Bell shrewdly. "It's for the both of you, to put towards your business. Expand, buy another mill, a farm, a mansion, a railway. Give it to your children. Do whatever you want. It's for the two of you, together."

"I…Thank you, Mr. Bell. I will have to speak to Margaret about this," John replied, his mind reeling.

"Of course, I have no doubt. But I know the two of you will make a wonderful team. Use it to build your empire. Margaret deserves to be a queen." Mr. Bell gripped John's shoulder, a rare look of seriousness on his face. "Take care of her, Thornton. I know that I've never really shown it properly, but I love her immensely. And I want her to be happy and loved. I know you will do that."

"I promise."

.

As soon as the day's work had been completed, John quickly changed out of his sweaty clothes and went to visit Margaret. Mr. Hale must have been watching the street; he opened the front door before John even had a chance to knock.

"John, have you heard the news?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"Aye, Mr. Bell just came to see me. I admit, I'm incredibly shocked by it all."

"Oh, that's just like Adam – blurt out some outrageous news and watch the chaos unfold," huffed Mr. Hale.

"What does Margaret say about it?" asked John carefully. Mr. Hale was very out of sorts, despite his pronouncement that Mr. Bell did things of this this nature regularly.

"I've not told her yet; she was at the hospital when Adam came by."

Mr. Hale lead the way to the drawing room. Margaret was absorbed in a book and it took her a moment to pull herself out of her reverie.

"John! This is a lovely surprise, I thought you'd be too busy to visit…" she took in the grave expressions on John and her father's faces. "Has something happened?"

"Aye… something good and something bad. Or all bad, if you look at it that way. I don't know how you're going to react…" John told her, sitting next to Margaret on the sofa.

Margaret was alarmed. "Tell me, quickly. You're beginning to terrify me."

John exhaled slowly and looked at Mr. Hale. He should probably be the one to tell his daughter the news.

"Go ahead, John," said Mr. Hale, waving his hand. "It affects the two of you more."

"Very well. Mr. Bell is moving to South America for his health. He has left his Milton property to Fred… and his money to you – fifteen thousand pounds of it," he told her gravely.

Margaret's mouth fell open. " _What_? I – I cannot possibly accept that! Surely he will need money to live on!"

"Adam gave me the impression that he would not need to support himself much longer. He is quite ill, I believe, but of course, he didn't want to talk about that," Mr. Hale supplied. "He told me years ago that he was going to leave his money to you once he passed. I argued against it, and he let the subject drop. I assumed it was because he had agreed to my wishes, but it was not so."

"But… It's too much!" cried Margaret. "I can't accept it… I will ask him to reconsider, or at least lessen the amount."

"He as already signed the papers. I don't believe you will be able to convince him. He told me he will stay until June, to help Fred begin his new duties, and to attend your wedding, but will sail after that," said Mr. Hale.

Margaret turned to John. "What do you think? Do you think I should accept the money?"

"He was quite insistent when he told me," John replied quietly. "I agree with your father; Mr. Bell won't relent."

She slumped back against the sofa. "What on earth am I supposed to do with it? I could never spend that much money in a hundred years."

John hesitated. "Mr. Bell explained to me that the money ought to be used by the two of us. To put towards to mill, so that we might grow the business together."

Margaret looked at him sharply. John hastened to assure her; "I'll not take the money, that's not what I meant. It was given to you and you can keep it after we are married."

"No, I'm not angry, I'm pleased," she said quickly, a smile forming. "That's a wonderful idea! You can use it to pay off your bank loan, and use the annuity from it to be able to pay the workers, without having to wait until the contracts are complete –"

"I'm not going to use it to fund my own interests!"

Margaret gave him an exasperated look. "But you just said –"

"I was think of you putting towards the schoolhouse or another tenement; not using it to pay off my debts," John told her sternly.

"John, there's enough money there to buy twenty tenements. We can use it to pay off one loan," she insisted.

"I've already sorted out my finances to pay back the loan. It'll be done in eighteen months; with the plan I've worked out."

"Then what's the difference of paying it off now in one go?" argued Margaret.

"I just…" John made a face. "I don't want you using your money to bail me out."

"No one's bailing you," said Margaret. "The mill is hardly struggling. But we can get rid of the loan, secure the wages for the workers… and buy another tenement or two for the rest of the workers to live in… Mr. Bell is right, this could be a wonderful opportunity for us."

John stared at her, amazed. "Are you sure that's what you want to do with it? There is no obligation for you to use it this way. Truly, Margaret, I've no need of it."

"I'm sure. It's the first step to us becoming partners. It's exactly what I want," she smiled. Margaret took his hand and lifted it to her mouth to kiss.

"I think Margaret's idea a fine one as well, John," Mr. Hale told him. He was watching the couple with an air of satisfaction. "All those schemes will pay off far better in the long run."

"Aye, very well," John agreed, grinning at Margaret. "If that is what you wish. But you ought to keep a portion of it, so that you can use the stipend for your own personal use. A thousand of it."

"Five hundred," she countered. "twenty-five pounds a year is more than enough."

"Eight hundred," he replied swiftly, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand.

Margaret glared at him, then laughed suddenly. "Very well."

John grinned. Despite the sad way it had come into their lives, this money would do wonders for the mill. Margaret would be compassionate and economical in its use. They would be able to build an empire together, just as they wished to.


	27. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star"

At the beginning of April, he and Margaret interviewed potential applicants from the charity home for the post of schoolteacher, Margaret having gathered the names of those suitable. Margaret wanted to hire the one she thought most appropriate straightaway, but John insisted on some sort of selection process. Margaret crowed over him good-naturedly when he pronounced a Miss Evans as his candidate, and it turned out to be the girl Margaret had wanted to hire in the first place.

She was young, only fifteen, but was very clever. Margaret told John that she had the girl in her training school previously, but soon realized she was far more suited to a scholarly occupation after she found Miss Evans secretly borrowing books from the family and reading them in the kitchen by firelight. Miss Evans wept happy tears when she was asked to be the schoolteacher, and cried even more when Margaret presented her with a set of educational books so that she could learn her new occupation between now and the completion of the school.

Another change that was applied was that of a recess. Now that the expansion was up and running, John could finally implement the recess system that Margaret had suggested all those months ago when he gave her to tour of the mill. The two of them worked out a timing system beforehand, which had to be discarded almost immediately as the application proved to be nothing like their plan on paper. After a few false starts – including one were an argument broke out in the sorting shed over the apparent laziness of the balers – the wave of breaks worked more or less in time with the structure of the mill. Now, each section got a ten-minute break for a drink and rest every two hours.

Higgins and Kavanagh were promoted and working well. Higgins was a hard maker over his fellow workers but those in his area were far less likely to make mistakes. Kavanagh's section had the highest rate of green reflected on their wooden monitors, but the hands also seemed to respond well to his less severe style.

.

Perusing the papers one morning, John read about a travelling art exhibition of Sir Joshua Reynolds work which would be displayed in York for a few weeks. He knew Margaret would love to see it so, after quarter sessions were over for this month, he when to Crampton and asked the Hales if a day trip to York was possible.

"Oh yes, that would be lovely!" Margaret enthused. "That's alright, isn't it, Papa? It's only for the day, we'd be back before nightfall."

"I suppose there's nothing improper in it," replied Mr. Hale.

"Only if you take Fred with you," cut in Mrs. Hale.

"What? Why me? I don't want to go to York and play gooseberry just to look at some paintings!" exclaimed Fred, suddenly sitting upright.

"You will, to watch your sister," said Mrs. Hale severely.

"Mama, that's hardly necessary –"

"Why am I being punished? It's not my fault they're getting married!"

"Fred, it's improper for them to travel alone at this time, so you will go," Mrs. Hale insisted.

John groaned inwardly. He hadn't thought about the travel portion of the excursion. It was absurd to him that he and Margaret needed to be chaperoned still, even though their wedding was only two months away. Knowing Fred, he would also likely get into some trouble while they were there, that John would no doubt have to get him out of.

In an effort to reign in Fred and avoid having him trail along reluctantly behind them, John invited Fanny so as to balance their number. The four of them left Milton early on Tuesday morning, and the train journey passed swiftly. The galley was only a short walk from the station, across the river to the expansive gardens and the pillared stone building that housed the paintings.

The rooms were crowded with people, but not too severely. John had little knowledge of Reynolds work, but Margaret did and loved the exhibition. She explained the artistic style as they ambled through the room. Fanny was pretending not to listen but also got caught up in Margaret's animated description.

"His paintings are very bold; bright colours and defined edges. He rarely blended his work, which is why it appears so clear and lifelike. You can see that he layers the paint, instead of blending it together," explained Margaret, lifting her hand to hover over the section she was indicating.

The paintings were mostly portraits, huge ones, done on large scale. One had to stand a fair bit back in order to take in the painting in it's entirety.

"He does lighting so realistically," John observed. "And his attention to detail of the backgrounds as well, not just the sitter, is astounding. They almost look real."

"Exactly. That's what I love about them. The people seem as though they are in the room with you, only sitting on the other side of a veil," said Margaret. The group stopped to admire a painting of a grey-haired woman in a black gown who was holding a child on her lap. "A lot of his portraits were commissioned by the nobility, and Reynolds usually painted the subjects in the guise of mythical beings. The nobility wanted to be thought of as the embodiment of elevated virtues."

Fred snorted. "Isn't this the Duchess of Devonshire? She was hardly virtuous, not with all her gambling and affairs."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Reynolds almost always put his sitters in a position of action that reflected their personality. Maybe the Duchess was very devoted to her children."

"You'd hope so. She'd have to have some redeeming part to her," replied Fred.

"He uses the colour red repeatedly," Fanny stated, casting her gaze around the room. "At least five of the paintings in here have red featured in them."

Fanny soon forgot her testiness. She too came to appreciate Reynolds work, and thought the women he painted to be very beautiful. A woman in an off-shoulder crimson gown was a favourite. "Her smile is lovely," said Fanny. "It looks like she's thinking secret things."

The party moved in to the second gallery, the portraits here having a slightly more somber air to them.

"God, that's the most unfortunate looking man I've ever seen," exclaimed Fred, stopping in front of a canvas that depicted an oddly stout gentleman, his bloated belly straining against his buttons, resting on the hilt of his sword. "If there was ever a time to not be realistic, it's when your sitter looks like that. And look at the expression on his face! He looks like he's been sucking lemons; he already knew his portrait was going to be unflattering."

Fanny giggled at Fred's frank description and even John had to bite his lip in an effort not to smile. Margaret was further down the gallery staring wistfully at a different painting.

"I've seen this one before, in London. I think it's my favourite of his," said Margaret. John stood beside her to observe the painting she was standing in front of. It was of a young woman who had a faraway look in her eye, her hair piled austerely upon her head, and a little black dog in her arms.

"He painted a lot of women and dogs," said Fanny, also coming to look at the painting.

"They're the only thing that will sit still long enough," laughed Fred.

Margaret made a face at her brother. "I don't know if that's a compliment or an offensive remark."

"The eternal struggle with everything Fred says," John stated drolly. Margaret snorted with laughter.

"Here is the Duchess of Devonshire again, as a child," said Margaret, moving to the next painting. "Her mother looks to be lovelier than she. She has kinder eyes."

"She had a much easier life," said Fred.

After the party had their fill of the gallery, they went to stroll in the gardens opposite the building. Fred and Fanny walked several paces in front, chatting companionably; Fred's ability to smooth talk anyone once again making an appearance.

"The invitations are finished and ready to be delivered. Are you excited?" Margaret asked him.

"Very much," replied John, grinning widely at her. "It'll be nice to finally have no restrictions on each other. And to have you always by my side."

Margaret looped her arm around his and lent in to him. "That is all I want. Not having to hear all these snide comments all the time, or having to pick apart Mama's every word, because I know she's just seething under the surface, even if she doesn't say anything anymore. I'm tired of everyone questioning my decisions as if I'm a mindless fool who has no idea what I want."

John picked up on her bitter tone and guessed at the cause of it. "You wrote to Edith, didn't you?"

"Yes," sighed Margaret. "I explained everything to her, about you and the mill and how I fell in love with you. I got her reply yesterday. Again, she didn't say anything outright hostile, and I think she understood why I didn't tell her when I saw her last. But she made a point of asking if I'd 'thought everything through' and if 'I knew what I was doing'. Mama, Edith… they were allowed to marry for love, why can't I?"

John squeezed her hand in sympathy. "Is she going to come for the wedding?"

"She said she would, her and Charles and Aunt Shaw. They will come up a week before."

"Then I will have a week to charm them," he jested softly, hoping to elicit a smile from her.

Margaret grinned. "Aye," she teased, eyes dancing with laughter. "And you will do it marvelously."

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Margaret's birthday was lovely, but it was John's gift that made it truly unforgettable. He picked her up at dusk and the two of them walked to a large field outside the city, John carrying a blanket over one arm. He helped her climb over the wooden fence then led her to a spot near a flowing river.

"How beautiful it is. Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Aye, years ago," he replied, spreading the blanket out on the grass and inviting her to sit beside him. "My father would to take me here to go fishing; he knew the man who used to own this farm. I almost never caught anything, but it was still fun; just the two of us together."

Margaret smiled. It was much easier for John to talk of his father now. "I'm glad you've shared it with me."

She settled down next to him, removing her bonnet and arranging her skirts about her. The sound of the water tripping over the rocks was soothing, and the night air that perfect blend of warm and hint of brusque breeze.

Margaret was slightly confused about the activity. They'd arrived too late to watch the sunset, and it would soon be too dark to see anything at all, never mind each other. She looked about her stealthily for a landmark or scene he wanted her to observe but couldn't see anything in particular.

John snorted with laughter, not fooled in the least. "Look up," he suggested.

Margaret did so, and gasped aloud. Millions of stars were visible, thrown across the black sky like sugar tipped onto velvet. The night was almost cloudless and only a few trees obstructed their view. She was amazed at the multitude of colours she could see; deep blues and blacks, the golden glow of light from the city and the setting sun kissing the horizon; all dotted over with tiny pinpricks of light. It looked exactly like the glass paperweight he'd given her for Christmas; the artist's skill becoming even more apparent.

John lay back on the blanket, and – after a moment's hesitation – Margaret followed suit. She kept their bodies apart, shifting over so that all she could feel was the whisper of heat of him next to her. She didn't want to tempt herself, especially since their kisses had become much more passionate of late.

"Do you know anything about constellations?" she asked him. "I've read some Greek and Roman mythology, but I don't know what the constellations look like."

"A little. I had a professor at school who liked astronomy and taught us how to find several constellations and stars." John pointed upwards. "That one there is Mars. Do you see the brightest star near it?"

Margaret ran her gaze over his finger to see where he was pointing. "Yes."

"That's Capella, which the Greeks thought represented the goat that fostered Zeus."

"Whose horn he broke off to become the Cornucopia. How amazing would one of those be? You'd never go without anything again."

"That would be a rather boring life, I think," John mused. "Having anything you wanted at the snap of your fingers? I'd never get anything done."

Margaret laughed. "Me neither. It's fun to imagine such things, but you're right; the reality would be far more burdensome than in one's mind."

"Aye," he replied. "Endless time and endless possessions… people always imagine they want it, but it would be an incredibly lonely existence."

"How do astronomers count stars? How do they even begin to map them?"

"Sextants and a good memory, I'd wager," he stated, humor in his voice. "They plot them on a start atlas for future reference."

Margaret sighed happily. "Just the name 'star atlas' fills me with such a wonderful feeling. I've never seen one, but I imagine them to be beautiful. The name conjures up images of sea voyages, and navigation and celestial beings."

John made a noise of agreement. They two of them lay quietly, admiring the night sky. It was almost completely dark now; only a faint glow from the city remained. A current of energy seemed to be buzzing between their bodies as well. Margaret wondered if John could feel it too – simple _awareness_ of another body next to hers. After their wedding, this was how it would always be, the two of them next to each other for the rest of their lives. A shiver of pleasure ran through Margaret at the thought.

John's deep voice interrupted her reflection. "That star further up is Pollux, part of the Gemini constellation. That one's an easy group to find. It looks exactly like two people next to each other."

Margaret grinned; John almost voiced her thoughts. She unthinkingly shifted closer to him to see the pattern of stars. It did indeed look like two stick figures next to one another. It made her think of another Greek story, and she asked; "Have you read Plato's opinion on couples? About the connection they have with one another?"

"No, what is it?"

"He recounts a Greek folktale. It's lovely. The story goes that humans originally had four arms and four legs, but shared a single mind. These humans had enormous strength and the gods began to fear their power. The gods struck them with lightening so that the humans were split into two halves, making them less fearsome. But the two halves were in agony to the point of death without the other half of their self. Each of these new humans would always long for their other half… the other half of their soul. When the two find each other, there is intense understanding; when they lie together, it would bring back that unity, and they would feel no greater joy."

Margaret's voice was barely a whisper by the end, belatedly realizing the intimate nature of the tale. She felt her cheeks heat; with desire or mortification she couldn't completely tell. She felt John shift beside her, both of them turning their heads to look at each other. It was just light enough that Margaret could make out the contours of his face. He was staring at her hungrily, his gaze roving from her eyes to her lips.

"You're right; it is a beautiful story," he said softly. He leant towards her, agonizingly slowly, and traced his tongue against her lips. He bit her bottom lip carefully, pulling it into his mouth. Margaret moaned involuntarily. This was not as heated a kiss as they had shared before, but lying next to each other in the darkness, their bodies almost touching, she felt her whole body alight with fire.

She reciprocated in kind, their tongues tangling, both of them panting heavily. She didn't move to touch any more of him, and neither did he. Both of them could feel their desire threatening to overtake them and didn't want to ignite it further.

Finally, Margaret could stand it no longer. She broke the kiss with a gasp and said; "Tell me something else."

John stuttered out a laugh, also breathless. "To distract ourselves?"

"Yes, something like that. Tell me more about your childhood. Where did you go to school?"

John grinned and shifted so he was watching the stars again. "A grammar school in Northwich. It was a big drab building in the middle of nowhere, but it had a good reputation."

"And you started when you were ten? Weren't you scared at leaving your parents?"

"A little. But ten is very grown up," he joked. "I wouldn't have told anyone I was afraid."

"I was afraid the first time I left home. I'd never been without Fred before and he always made me feel brave. But Edith and I got along really well. Aunt Shaw was stricter than my parents but she also indulged us a great deal, if that makes sense. We weren't allowed to eat certain things or read certain books, but I remember we also went months without a governess one year, because Edith took exception to the way the woman spoke and she was dismissed. Aunt Shaw was rather lax about hiring the next one."

"Did you like your governesses?"

"Well enough. None stick in my mind as particularly clever or imparting something groundbreaking. But I highly doubt we gave our teacher near as much trouble as a school full of boys did!"

"Aye," he laughed. "We caused trouble enough. The headmaster carried a long birch stick that he used to whack against the desk of the student he thought wasn't paying attention. Made us jump every time."

"I can't picture you as a troublemaker," Margaret mused. "I bet you were the first in your class."

"I paid attention, for the most part. But most young boys can be led to do anything reckless. One of my friends convinced a group of us to sneak out at nighttime to the nearby town. We got about halfway there before we were caught and marched back. None of us would give up the instigator so we all got a thrashing. I remember being told that if you close your fist really quickly as the cane was brought down, you'd be able to catch it and it wouldn't hurt as much."

"Did it work?"

"I don't know. I closed my fist too early and was struck on my knuckles instead. That seemed to hurt more than on the palm."

Margaret muffled a giggle. "John Thornton, a rule breaker. That's a contradiction if I ever heard one."

"Hey, I'll have you know that I was planning a life of rule breaking. I was going to be a pirate, ever since I read a book about the lives of English pirates."

"I read that one too! Actually, Fred read it to me. He took fencing classes for a while and taught me. We were going to run away together and be the first brother and sister pirate duo to find buried treasure. We drew a map and everything."

"I can picture that," John sniggered. "I bet you were merciless with a cutlass."

"Very," Margaret grinned. "Fred was stronger than I was, but I wasn't chivalrous at all, as one is supposed to be in a duel; I always went for the unsportsmanlike maneuvers."

"So if we ever have to best another in a sword fight, I should just hide behind you then?" he teased.

"Precisely."

Margaret sighed contently and took John's hand. "Thank you for bringing me here. It was a marvelous birthday gift."

John brought their linked hands to his chest, over his heart. "You're welcome," he replied softly.

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May was a very busy time for Milton. The Great Exhibition had begun, along with John and Margaret's new plans. The money from Mr. Bell meant that they no longer had to wait for funds to begin their projects. In acknowledgement to using the money for the mill, Mr. Bell put both their names on the account, so that both were able to access it.

An annuity account was set up for Margaret, with the agreed eight hundred pounds. A builder was engaged for the schoolhouse. They also decided to buy two more tenement buildings for the rest of the workers to live in, since the Irish gave glowing reports on their own improved standard of living. Margaret breezed in and out of the mill yard, checking the progress on the building frequently. With the care of two more tenements under her charge, Margaret was now spending more of her time with John in his office, calculating finances and answering worker complaints. She was such a fixture at the mill that messages started coming in for while she was away, necessitating John to add another tray to his desk labelled 'For Margaret.' Williams and the superintendents also began to come to her for advice or instruction, almost as frequently as they did John.

He had provided Margaret with the funds to make more masks for the new workers back in March, and they were finally completed and distributed. They were vastly effective; occurrences of coughing fits and breathing complaints were now minimal.

Another survey was conducted by a man from London. John had little to do with these men in the past, only granting them access to his property. But this man, a Mr. Brandon, made a point of calling on John in his office and stating that Marlborough Mill had the highest quality of worker satisfaction of all the mills he'd examined, in addition to being one of the highest producing cotton mills in the country. John proudly told Mr. Brandon that it was largely due to his fiancée's input; Margaret being the voice for the workers.

The survey was published a few weeks later, and paid particular attention to Marlborough Mill. This, coupled with the excitement over the display of Northern cotton at the Exhibition, meant that John was in a unique position of power over the rest of Milton cotton mills. When orders came flooding in for cotton, John had almost exclusive rights to all of them, as his mill was the only one able to fulfill them at the pace the buyers wanted.

The other masters had caught on to John's scheme, but too late to alter their own output. In Godfrey's, Slickson and Henderson had cornered John, demanding to know how it was possible that he had _profited_ from the loss of half his workers after the strike.

"I didn't lose half my workforce, if you remember," John replied irritably. "I told you that changes would have to be made if you wanted to improve, but none of you took up my advice."

"But how are you affording it? Every day I went past Marlborough, there were machines being delivered. You have, what, five hundred workers now? You sent for more Irish! And rumor has it that you bought _three_ residential buildings!" cried Slickson incredulously.

"I saved my money wisely," said John evasively. He didn't want it to be known that Margaret had a large inheritance or that they were both – uncommonly – able to use before their marriage. Margaret had made so many improvements for the mill of her own volition and he didn't want her contributions to be overshadowed by her inheritance. He also didn't want people to think he was only marrying her for the wealth she would bring him.


	28. Chapter 26

*A/N: Thanks again for the wonderful reviews; keep them coming! Thank you to reviewer who said that I displayed the contrasts so brilliantly – that was exactly what I was going for.

These next few chapters will be M rated.

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Chapter 26

"This above all; to thine own self be true"

One of John's only duties for his upcoming wedding was to be outfitted for his wedding clothes. He spent ages arguing with Mother over what he wanted, compared to what his mother thought he ought to wear, and then another age in the tailor's being measured and poked with pins. The tailor, Flintcroft, was an elderly man with a shock of white hair, whom John had first met when he worked in the drapers. John had often delivered Fintcroft's orders to his store and the two became aquatinted. John liked his calm way of speaking and the way his always seemed to be smiling at some amusing thing. The kind man had made John a winter coat for Christmas one year. John now repaid his thoughtfulness by frequenting the shop and leaving sizable gratuities now that he was able to do so.

He and Margaret seemed to have very little input into the details of their wedding, but neither really minded. That they were getting married was what mattered most. The other duty of his was to make the arrangements for their honeymoon. He'd chosen two modern hotels in secluded parts of Yorkshire, with Margaret's approval. There was enough close by that they could find things to explore if they wanted, but far enough away from the rush of the town that they could be as unguarded as they wished.

John was beyond eager to begin married life. To wake every morning next to Margaret, spend his days working along side her… and spent the nights utterly immersed in each other.

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Although Margaret came often to the mill during the day, they had not been able to spend much time alone together lately, which was perhaps for the best, given how intense his thoughts of her had been of late.

In preparation for his upcoming absence, John had halted his lessons with Mr. Hale for now, instead focusing on writing detailed instructions for Williams, and asked him to send him weekly reports on all that happened. He finalized several new contracts to make sure that there would be enough for the workers to do.

Margaret had been likewise occupied with last minute tasks. Mrs. Hale was determined to send her daughter off in style despite – or perhaps because of – her dislike of Margaret's choice of husband. Margaret and Mrs. Hale, as well as Dixon and Caoimhe, had been sewing madly for weeks in preparation, in addition to Margaret's many visits to the dressmaker for her own tailoring.

The last of their duties finally attended to, John visited Margaret one stormy Thursday evening. The black thunderous sky made it appear later than it really was and the crash of thunder occasionally startled the occupants of the drawing room.

"I hope it doesn't rain on your wedding day," fretted Mrs. Hale.

"Me too, otherwise I won't be able to hear the minister's words over the pound of rain. I might say 'I will' to the wrong man!" Margaret laughed.

"I knew there was a reason we should have limited the guest list," John replied.

"It's too late now, almost everyone agreed to attend," said Mrs. Hale, the jest flying straight over her head. "It's a pity Papa's brother and his family could not attend, but there was nothing he could do about it. Still, the church should look full enough, if the pews are arranged as I asked. We can't have any empty seats; how vulgar it would look…"

Mrs. Hale twittered on for an age, rehashing details that had long since been decided. Even Margaret's expression glazed over after a while.

"I read in the paper about the wonderful exhibits in London," said Mr. Hale, during a moment when his wife stopped for breath. "Margaret tells me you are receiving extra contracts as a result, John."

"Aye, as many as I'd anticipated, which is excellent for all our plans," John replied. "I've also received several letters of introduction from people who want to invest in the mill and who want advice about how to make money in cotton."

He had been intrigued by the first letter, and – if he was honest with himself – flattered that people thought him an authority on the subject. He'd been pleased by the attention, even though he didn't want to bring investors into his mill. John didn't want to be accountable to others or spend their money, in case some catastrophe came about and he lost everything.

But by the fourth letter, he'd become rather irritated. The letters were not from businessmen, as he first imagined, but from starry-eyed London toffs who thought they only have to snap their fingers to make a fortune in cotton. They had no idea the discipline it took, how many years he'd had to spend learning and perfecting his craft.

"I've decided not to accept the investors," John told Mr. Hale. "But the attention has been good for the mill. Hopefully, production will continue to rise over the summer."

"While we waltz off and let Williams do all the hard work," Margaret quipped, grinning at him.

"He's pleased about it. He thinks I interfere far too much already."

"Which you do."

"For his benefit."

"Not if he's happy to see you go!"

"Maybe he just wants you out of the way so he can commandeer your operation," smiled Mr. Hale, continuing the joke. "You'll come back to find it renamed 'Williams Mill'."

"He'll get a good sock in the nose if that happens," John replied dryly.

"Where do you suppose Fred has go to?" asked Mrs. Hale. "It's almost eight; he said he'd be home ages ago."

"He might be with Adam," said Mr. Hale. "He's been determined that Fred take proper care with his new duties."

"How is Fred doing with that?" asked Margaret. "I've been so busy lately, I've not had much time to speak with him about it."

"Quite well, I believe," said Mr. Hale proudly. "He was glad to leave the Exchange, and all of his tenants are long term leases, so he's not got much pressure on his time. And he's been looking for a place of his own, now that his income has increased."

"Oh, I hope not," said Mrs. Hale mournfully. "I can't have both my children gone at once."

"We won't stray very far, Mama," Margaret replied soothingly. Mrs. Hale gave her daughter a kind smile and patted her hand in thanks. John was happy to see the exchange; the two of them had been quite testy towards each other these past months. Perhaps now that the stress of the wedding was behind them, things would begin to return to normal.

Mrs. Hale soon retreated to her parlor to write some correspondence and Mr. Hale to his library with a passing, 'not too late, now' at John and Margaret, closing the door behind him.

Now finally alone, John moved closer to Margaret and laced his fingers through hers, pulled her towards him for a kiss that only just stopped on the edge of all-consuming. He'd been aching all day for the chance to kiss her again, his thoughts on almost nothing else.

Margaret sighed under his touch and huddled herself closer to him. "Only two more weeks to wait, and then we won't have to hold back anymore," she whispered against his lips.

"Are you nervous about… that part of the wedding day?"

"Yes. But an excited nervous," Margaret smiled. "I feel they way one does on Christmas eve; when you barely sleep from excitement and you're full of butterflies. That's what I feel when you kiss me. And when I'm alone, thinking of you."

He kissed her deeply again, his body humming happily at her words. "You imagine this?" he asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "Do you?"

John gave a husky laugh. "Aye, almost every night. I've dreamt of you more times that I can possibly count."

"Dreamt of us… being together?" she murmured.

"Is there any other kind of dream about you?" he teased.

"What are they like?"

"Beautiful," he whispered. And also a little hazy, since his mind was not able to completely conjure up something he'd never physically experienced before.

The closer it came to the wedding, the more John thought of Margaret in his arms, in his bed. He often caught himself daydreaming when he should have been working. His dreams of her at night had become more vivid as his body yearned for her. Every kiss with her was was exquisite, but also left him wanting so much more, particularly as he could see the lusty expression in Margaret's eyes too.

The most intense time had been her birthday, the two of them laying next to each other in the darkness with nothing but a few layers of clothing between their flushed skin. The story she had told him had also resonated with him. It was as if Plato had been describing _their_ relationship. How alike their souls were, and how often they voiced what the other was thinking. John was sure that when their bodies finally connected, all of their selves would come together in a shock of pleasure and completeness.

That night had also made him aware of the fact that he'd never touched Margaret's skin before, not properly at least. He'd only ever held her hands or kissed her lips. He began to imagine what she would look like unclothed. He had no tangible frame of reference for women's bodies, only what he'd read in books or seen in paintings. But he knew that Margaret would be just as beautiful to him that way as she was now.

Laying in bed one night, curiosity and desire overtook him and he discarded his nightshirt and carefully smoothed his own hands over his body. He ran his fingers through his hair, trailed them over the bridge of his nose, his lips, his neck; the flat of his palms against his chest, trying to imagine how if would feel if Margaret were the one touching him. Even though it was only a fantasy, his breathing had stuttered with pleasure at the half-formed images in his head.

Their kiss became more intense, John sliding his hands to Margaret's waist to feel the contours of her body beneath her clothing. Margaret carefully unwound his cravat and undid the top button of his shirt, fluttering her fingers against his skin, causing him to moan. He'd been about to daringly move his hands further up her body to her breasts, when the door to the drawing room was suddenly flung open.

The couple sprang apart, mortified at having been caught in such a compromising position, but the intruder turned out to be Fred, who didn't even notice them. He stumbled inside, knocking over a table and cursing. He staggered wildly when he tried to right himself, using the wall to keep himself steady. He was clearly very drunk.

"Fred, sit down," scolded Margaret, moving to pick up the table, "you'll make Papa come in here–"

"Shhh!"

Fred put his hand over Margaret's mouth and yanked her against him roughly, almost pulling her off her feet. He peered between the curtains, down to the street, breathing heavily. John had leapt up angrily at the show of force; only Margaret's steadying hand stopped him from responding to Fred's callous behavior.

Fred looked afraid, his gaze firmly fixed on whatever had caused his loud entrance. Margaret tried to pull Fred's hand away from her mouth but he was too preoccupied to notice her efforts, until Margaret bit him.

"Ow, dash it!" he cried, flapping his hand. "What was that for?"

"What do you think?" Margaret retorted angrily. "What's wrong with you?"

"Be quiet!"

"What did you do?"

Fred suddenly ducked down below the window sill, pulling Margaret down out of sight as well. "Everyone shut up!" he whispered furiously.

In the silence, John could hear the sound of the pattering rain, as well as men's voices raised in anger. Fred's fear heightened his own wariness and John moved to peer through the gap in the curtains. He saw three men in the street, looking around and shouting obscenities. The men obviously hadn't seen which house Fred had gone in to and after a few more moments of shouting at Fred to show himself, the men left.

John stretched out his hand to Margaret and pulled her to her feet. He then grabbed Fred's upper arm and wrenched him up as well. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing," insisted Margaret. She lit the lamp on the desk, the broader light showing that Fred was soaking wet and rather worse for wear. He had the beginnings of a black eye and a split lip.

"Fred, you're bleeding!" Margaret exclaimed, turning Fred around so that she could find the source of the blood. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, a long cut beneath it. Margaret frowned and tore the hole larger to see the damage.

"Hey, watch it!" complained Fred. "That hurts."

"Serves you right. Now, sit down this moment before I give you another black eye."

John mentally echoed the sentiment. He was annoyed at having been interrupted; the first time he'd been able to be alone with Margaret in days. Although, he was grateful it was Fred who'd found them, and not Mr. Hale; or worse, Mrs. Hale. He didn't want to give her any more reason to dislike him.

Margaret shoved Fred down onto the sofa with surprising force. The threat seemed to quiet him somewhat, and sat still as Margaret got out a box filled with medical supplies. She wrapped two of her fingers in a cloth and prodded gently at the cut, causing Fred to wince.

"It's not deep. I can stich it up here," Margaret told him. She passed a needle through the candle flame then carefully sewed the wound shut, her brow furrowed with concentration. She asked John to ring for Caoimhe.

"Can you please bring up some garlic, honey and a small bowl?" Margaret asked the girl when she entered. "And please do it quietly, I don't want Mama coming in here and making a fuss."

"Right away, miss," replied Caoimhe earnestly.

Fred's eyes closed and he dropped his head in his hand, lulled by the alcohol. Caoimhe returned quickly with the requested items, putting them on the table next to Margaret.

"John, while I finish this, can you make a paste of those things in the dish? A teaspoon of each should do."

John did as she asked. The concoction had a strong smell, and not in a good way. "What's it for?" he asked.

"To stop the cut from becoming inflamed," she replied. Margaret snipped off the end of the thread, then patted the paste across the raised stitching, before pressing a clean bandage over it.

"What happened, Fred?" she asked him quietly.

"Nothing," he said morosely. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Why were those men chasing you?"

"I got into a fight with them. One of them to a swipe at me with a blade. Guess they felt they weren't quite done with me."

"Why did you lead them here?" asked John severely. "What if they come back looking for you?"

"I doubt they will. They were drunk too; they'll forget it soon enough."

"Why must you do this, Fred? Why can't you just behave properly, instead of starting fights with anyone who looks at you wrong."

Fred opened his eyes and glared at his sister. "That's how _everyone_ looks at me."

Margaret sighed heavily. She cleaned her hands then helped Fred lay down on the sofa. The young man was asleep almost instantly.

"Something's going on with him," she told John quietly, looking sadly at her brother. "Something even worse than the drinking."

John agreed. It was clear that Fred was very unhappy and drinking heavily to forget whatever it might be. He would go weeks completely fine, before some incident occurred, the cause known only to himself, and then he'd spiral down. But he also bounced back fairly quickly too, which was the part that perplexed John the most. He had tried to talk to Fred before, thinking he might want to confide in a male friend, but had been unsuccessful.

"Why do you think they tried to hurt him?" asked Margaret concernedly.

"He probably swindled them. Or maybe he won money off them and they tried to steal it back."

"I didn't imagine that to be a violent thing," said Margaret, alarmed. "He always talks about his gambling as if it's a great joke; a fun thing."

"I'm sure it is," John assured her. "This was probably an aberration. Perhaps it'll teach him to be more mindful of his next target."

Margaret sighed. "I desperately hope you're right. Fred never learns."

John wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "As soon as we return from our honeymoon, I'll do what I can to help him. Mr. Bell will have left by then, and Fred'll need guidance."

"I don't like the idea of you pouring all your energy into helping my careless brother."

"We're going to be family, he'll be my responsibility too," John reminded her. "We'll work something out."

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On Tuesday, Aunt Shaw, Edith and the Captain arrived in Milton for the wedding. In lieu of Edith's father attending, Charles had brought his brother Henry along. He'd written to Margaret to inquire if that was acceptable to her and she agreed, having forgotten how disagreeable Henry was, until the moment he arrived.

Due to Edith's short replies to the invitation and several letters she'd sent since then, Margaret was apprehensive. It looked as though Edith was not going to support Margaret's decision. But she was still hopeful that Edith would warm up to John, after the two of them met.

The day the party arrived, the Hales met them at the station. Mama and her sister greeted each other enthusiastically. Aunt Shaw immediately commented on the smogginess of the city, never mind the fact she'd only been arrived for less than five minutes. Charles was as amenable as he always was and pleased to meet Fred, the two of them likeminded enough to be instant friends. Edith wrinkled her nose distastefully at the scent of coal. She greeted Margaret with a frostiness that did not abate as the party drove through the crowded streets to the hotel. Edith was reacting to Milton as Margaret had when she first arrived, viewing the city through the lens of London's colour and grace.

Margaret took care to point out all the interesting landmarks as they went, hoping to capture her cousin's interest. "That's the arcade down that street… and that building there is the hospital… I've had to take a break from volunteering right now, planning the wedding has been a time-consuming task, and because I'll be leaving on my wedding trip soon too."

"From your letters I assumed it was a lovely building filled with sun and fresh air," replied Edith. "But it looks almost like a dungeon!"

"The inside is much nicer," Margaret defended.

"Don't you find your health worsened here?" quavered Aunt Shaw, holding a handkerchief to her nose. "The dirty air and spending all your time around those poor ill people!"

"Not noticeably," frowned Margaret. "And those people are very well looked after. The hospital is run efficiently; no one is exposed unnecessarily."

"How noisy it is! You can hardly hear yourself think," complained Henry. "I'm glad all these factories are kept tucked away in the wild North."

The conversation continued in this vein for a while, the Shaws taking exception and Margaret and Papa defending. Once arrived at the hotel, the Hales left their guests to get settled. It was arranged that they would call on the Hales the next morning for tea.

Margaret was feeling rather downcast over the visit, further disheartened by the arrival of a note from John, regrettably informing her that he would not be able to visit her tonight; a delay at the mill meaning that the workers would need to stay behind for a few hours to complete the order. She'd been hoping he might comfort her over her increased feeling of dread that Edith would react badly over the course of her visit. Edith had been short with her all day and made several more pointed comments about Milton.

Her family might not give John a chance to charm them. By the look of things, they'd immediately begin picking him apart. And not just his character. Judging by Charles and Henry's comments, they would also ask him numerous questions about his mill as well. John wouldn't mind explaining the process to them, as he had done for many curious people, but Margaret also feared that they wouldn't want to know about it for John's sake, but because they'd want to know how it might benefit them.

The Thorntons arrived at eleven the next morning; Fanny and Mrs. Thornton wearing their best clothes. Margaret wasn't in the mood for mindless chatter. When John sat on the sofa beside her, Margaret took his hand and leant her head against him with a sigh.

"Is it that bad?" he asked her softly, his brow creasing.

"I don't know. We'll find out after they meet you. But I'm not hopeful," she replied in undertone. John smoothed his thumb across the back of her hand comfortingly.

The arrival of the hired carriage drew Margaret into an upright position. She bit her lip nervously. Caoimhe admitted the family. Everyone stood and exchanged polite greetings, the men shaking hands. John had clearly remembered Margaret's explanation from last time and did not attempt to shake Edith or Aunt Shaw's hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for travelling to attend the wedding," said Mrs. Thornton.

"Oh, it's no trouble for us. We are used to travelling. We go to the continent almost every year; a few hours north is no hardship," replied Aunt Shaw, with a boastful air. Margaret winced. This was going to be an incredibly uncomfortable visit. John noticed her tension and took her hand again. They shared a quick look of reassurance.

"Are the streets always so crowded?" asked Edith.

"No more than they are in London," replied Papa, frowning a little. He was confused by the Shaws abruptness, the family never having been so before.

There was an awkward silence as Caoimhe poured tea for everyone, furtively darting a reassuring glance at Margaret. Margaret thought quickly for a topic. They couldn't talk on mutual acquaintance since the two families had none. Nor could they talk more about London, the Thorntons having never visited. Mrs. Thornton looked as though she was biting her tongue in an effort not to say anything vexing.

"How is Gabriel?" Margaret asked Edith, hoping speaking of her son would make her more friendly.

"Oh, he's just lovely," Edith replied. "The nursemaid told me he rolled over the other day! And he makes the most delicious little surprised face when I shake a rattle for him."

"How old is he?" asked Fanny.

"Four months. But such a clever four months. The nursemaid says he's the smartest she's ever seen," said Edith brightly.

Margaret smiled, pleased that the child was doing well, although a little saddened at the apparent lack of time Edith spent with her son.

Charles spoke up. "Edith and I went to the Great Exhibition not long ago. I was impressed by the machinery. I have to say, I never realized the power of it… and the money to be made from cotton." He turned to Henry and stated good-naturedly; "Maybe we should go into cotton."

Margaret knew that Charles meant it as a compliment, but it sounded patronizing to John, who frowned. John had grumbled to her about the letters he'd been receiving since May, rich men wanting him to help them get richer, and thinking he ought to be grateful for the chance to do so.

"I should think it takes a deal more energy than you have," Henry replied blandly. "And we don't need loud machinery to make money in London. Nor do we need to suffer the Northern climate. Do we, Margaret? I ask the émigré amongst us."

"It's true that the climate is different," said Margaret, trying to be diplomatic despite Henry's condescending tone. "But I don't have an aversion to it."

"So I see," Henry stated, with a side glance at John. Margaret tightened her grip on John's hand.

"Have you gotten many new investments, Thornton?" asked Charles. "All of London truly is abuzz with the economic boom. People have been investing in industry left and right."

"I have gotten inquiries. But I don't accept investors."

Charles stared at him in surprise. "You run the mill entirely on your own capital?"

"I do."

"But Margaret has told us your mill is a huge enterprise," said Charles, confused. "And I read in the paper that Marlborough Mill is almost a monopoly in Milton. That is your mill, is it not?"

"Aye, although that article was rather exaggerated. I have the most contracts at present, it's true, but the other masters have also received influx of orders. All of Milton has profited from this, and will continue to do so."

"Do you take on all the work yourself?" asked Henry.

"For the most part. I employ an overseer. And Margaret also works with me."

The Shaws gave the couple a shocked look. Edith had clearly not shared the contents of Margaret's most recent letters with her husband or brother-in-law. Their astonishment also made Margaret realize that they had imagined John a man of leisure, now that he had made his wealth. They were astounded to learn that he still worked in his trade, instead of turning the care of his mill over to another while he simply lived off the profits.

"You work in the mill, Margaret?" Charles asked her, staring from her to John in disbelief.

Margaret looked at Edith questioningly, wondering why she hadn't told her husband the full story, but Edith wouldn't catch her eye. Margaret had a nasty suspicion that Edith had done this on purpose, to cause unease for her and make John come across as a villain. She narrowed her eyes at her cousin. "As I explained to Edith, I manage the tenement buildings and the schoolhouse. I am the mediator between the workers and John. All of which was my idea," she stated firmly, before they could pounce on John for making his wife work.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "How extraordinary," said Aunt Shaw faintly. "You're sounding a little… well, I hate to notice, but a little revolutionary."

"Good," retorted Margaret.

"Margaret, don't be impolite. Their surprise is understandable. After all, it _is_ very unusual what you are doing," said Mama.

Papa, not a confrontational man by any means, attempted to draw the attention away from the couple. "You are lucky to visit in summer. The winters are harsh, but Milton in summer is quite lovely. Such wonderful colours."

Aunt Shaw ignored him. "Maria, you approve of this… avant-garde behavior?"

Mama hesitated. "Margaret has made many improvements for the workers. And she doesn't work there near enough as the two of them just implied." Margaret grit her teeth at Mama's lie.

"How is it you are able to be away from the mill today, Mr. Thornton? I imagine you have such demands on your time, working as hard as you do," asked Edith backhandedly.

"I left my overseer in charge," John replied slowly, annoyed by the hostility the Shaws were exerting.

"I hear that your house is next door to the mill. How fortunate to have such a short journey each day. Though it would be a rather noisy residence, based on the sights I saw yesterday," said Aunt Shaw, deciding to mimic her daughter's passive-aggressiveness. "It will be rather strange for you, Margaret, after the quietness of this house."

"Aunt, you live in London," said Fred irritably, "which is twice as loud."

"It's a different kind of noise," sniffed Aunt Shaw.

"It was a surprise to read of your marriage plans, Margaret. I don't remember you showing much inclination towards courtship during your last season," said Charles, ineptly trying to change the subject.

"I never met anyone I liked," she replied stiffly. This was torture. She'd never thought the Shaws would be so outwardly rude in front of the Thorntons. Some barbed comments here and there, but not this appalling interrogation.

"It seems to me that you are basing your marriage on rather shaky ground," drawled Henry maliciously. "Marriages struggle often enough in one's own class, how can the two of you hope to make a success of yours?"

John looked thunderous. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, even you must admit that there is an irreconcilable difference between the two of you," returned Henry, holding up his hand in mock surrender.

Margaret glared at him. "No there isn't. We are very alike."

"Now, perhaps. But there's always something isn't there? Some stumbling block."

"Oh, I see what this is," stated Fred. "Your new wife has just realized what an ass you are, and you're venting it towards Margaret. That took her far longer than I thought it would."

Despite how tense she was, Margaret almost let out a hysterical giggle at the look on Henry's face. For once, she was grateful for Fred's insolence. Henry went a blotchy shade of red and he didn't speak again.

The rest of the visit was incredibly strained. John held Margaret's hand tightly, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He had no doubt also thought that Edith would have shared her knowledge with her husband. Margaret and John told each other everything; they had momentarily forgotten that other couples might not behave the same way.

Mrs. Thornton was offended on her son's behalf; her jaw clenched in annoyance at Margaret's patronizing family. The Shaws had thought it a little lowbrow of Margaret to marry outside their social circle, but had clearly imagined John as a _nouveau riche_ ; when in fact he was still firmly entrenched in his trade and gladly so. The more Margaret watched Edith, the more she was certain that this was all her doing, wrong-footing Margaret when she most needed her support, and humiliating the Thorntons in the bargain.

Mama was also airing her grievances again, now that she had the support of her sister and niece's low opinion. Margaret was absolutely livid by the time tea was over. She gave Edith a fake smile and said pointedly; "Edith, my wedding gown is upstairs in my room and I would love you to see it."

Edith wasn't fooled, she knew exactly what Margaret was planning. However, she couldn't very well refuse the request front of everyone and so reluctantly followed Margaret upstairs to her bedroom. Margaret closed the door then turned furiously to face her cousin.

"Why did you do that? I never knew you to be so unkind!"

"I don't know what you mean," replied Edith haughtily.

"You know exactly what I mean!" Margaret hissed. "You didn't tell them anything on purpose, so that they'd be shocked when they got here! You did this just to upset me! Why?"

.

.

.

John had excused himself from the drawing room while both parties prepared to leave, and followed Margaret and her cousin upstairs. He stood to the side of Margaret's bedroom door, rooted to the spot. He knew he shouldn't be eavesdropping. But he wasn't able to stop himself because he was terrified.

He'd seen that Margaret was very unhappy over the tension between her and her family. They'd not supported her. She'd been able to speak confidently about not caring about it before they had arrived, but now the resistance was right in front of her; constant, biting and inescapable. Even her mother had reverted back to rudeness and Mr. Hale had just sat there like a limpet and let it all unfold. The Shaws had been brutal. They'd had the impression that he lived the life of a gentleman, even though his money was new; and had been appalled to be have that belief contradicted.

What would happen now? Would they force Margaret to call off the wedding? Would they take her away from him? He needed hear for himself what Edith would say to Margaret, if Edith was going to cut her cousin or demand some miserable ultimatum – him or her.

"Because he is a manufacturer! A tradesman!" cried Edith. "He is completely beneath you, not to mention unsuitable."

"He is _not_. He has built himself up from nothing, Edith. Nothing! That is so much more remarkable than simply having the luck of being born into wealth. And even if he was beneath me, it would not matter. You know I have never cared for such things. Anyway, Papa approves of him, of our union."

"Uncle would let you marry the chimney sweep if you had a notion to," retorted Edith.

"Yes, he would! Because he judges people solely on the character. As do I. I learnt John's character and I love him completely for it."

"In spite of his crassness? He was so severe when he spoke –"

"Stop it, don't be so nasty! He spoke that way because you were all attacking him! He is not crass, nor uncultured. He is a gentleman. And he is to be my husband. I love him with all my heart. I'll hear no more of this!"

John held his breath. His heart tripped to hear Margaret defending him so vehemently, but she was clearly not making any headway to convincing her cousin of his character.

"I don't think you've thought about everything," said Edith, changing her tone to one she no doubt thought was reasonable. "Henry is right; you will have different ideas about what is proper, about education, raising children. He wants to work in his mill, for god's sake!"

"That was _my_ idea, and you know it. Just because it's not what _you_ want, doesn't make it wrong."

Edith continued, not convinced. "Is this all just because you're attracted to him?"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well, when you spoke to me in London, it sounded like you were talking of someone you were physically attracted to. I think that's clouded your opinion."

"For the past six months? You think I've had my head in the clouds for that long? What you must think of me! I'm not that shallow, Edith. Nor do I need to remind you that his handsomeness was the first thing you told me you liked about Charles."

"Charles respects me! He puts the proper distance between us; he acts as a gentleman should. Your Mr. Thornton looked at you in a most unseemly manner, almost like he was thinking of devouring you."

John almost cursed aloud. He hadn't thought he was being so obvious, especially not today. Had he been staring at Margaret like that in public?

"Oh, for god – not that I have to explain myself to you, but John and I have already spoken about this. I don't want polite affections from my husband. I want love and passion and a husband who is more than just affable! I know that sounds unkind to you, and I'm sure you are happy, but that is not what I want."

"Enough that you'd marry an upstart like him?"

"Don't you dare, Edith," Margaret spat. "That is not what he's doing. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

"That's exactly what he's doing!" said Edith triumphantly. "He's made his wealth and now he needs to legitimize by marrying a gentlewoman! How can you not see that, Margaret? He doesn't love you, not as a gentleman should."

John half started towards the door, so furious at that pronouncement that he was about to rush in and put Edith to rights. Margaret could not be allowed to think that! He'd worked so hard to prove himself to her, and now it might all be undone mere days before their wedding. Only Margaret's angry shout stopped him.

"How in god's name did you arrive at that conclusion? I told you _everything_. I told you what had happened between us."

"You told me a lot of nonsense. He was clearly honour-bound to you, after the strike. And did he know of the money before or after he asked to marry you?"

"You know the answer to all that, Edith! You talk as if a dowry is some shameful thing to have, as if Charles didn't immediately put yours into his estate! John wanted me to keep my dowry; it was I that pushed him into putting it in the mill, and I'm the one spending it there now."

"Because of his input –"

"Stop it. I'm done talking about this with you. You've hurt me enormously with this. And you know what upsets me the most? It's not that you won't accept him, or that you're not listening to me. It because it's clear that it is my _happiness_ that offends you. If I have been betrothed to a deplorable man with a title, you would have been full of sympathy and advice. It's only because I am happy that you are being so unreasonable."

"If you would just see _sense_ –"

"Get out, Edith!"

The door was wretched open and Edith stormed out of the room. She pushed right past John and down the stairs without a backward glance. Hopefully it looked as though John had only just followed them up here. John rushed into the bedroom – propriety be damned – at the sound of Margaret's tears.

She wasn't surprised to see him. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest with a sob. John stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"You knew I was there?" he asked her.

"I saw your shadow under the door, and I heard you follow us up. I knew you were listening," she replied.

"I'm sorry," he said dejectedly. "I know that was wrong of me."

"It doesn't matter. I didn't say anything I wouldn't have said in front of you. And now you know how awful my family is, what you are marrying into. I'm sorry that they were so unfriendly to you."

"All I care about is your happiness. Everyone else can go hang."

Margaret gave an amused sniff at that. "Will you stay here with me a while? I don't want to go down there and face them. I'll only lose my temper again."

"Of course, my love."

"I'll apologise to your mother later."

"Don't worry about that," John soothed. "Actually, I think the only good thing that came from all of this is that Mother will likely now see you are the best of all of them."

"I don't think that will appease her."

John sat carefully on the edge of Margaret's bed and pulled her into his lap. Margaret curled her body into his and lay her head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry I made things worse for you," he said apologetically. "About – about how I've been watching you. I didn't even know I was doing it."

"Oh, that was just Edith talking nonsense. It's because she's used to having all men look at her when she enters the room; if you didn't, there must be some vulgar reason why not."

"I half expected them to drag you away from me right then and there," he said, holding her tighter. "Will they… force you to call off the wedding?"

"Even if they ask me to, they can't stop me; they've no legal right to. They'll likely refuse to come to the wedding, especially after the way I just spoke to Edith. I'm sure they're already making plans to go back to London. I so wanted Edith to come to my wedding," Margaret sighed.

The bedroom door opened quietly and Fred stepped into the room. He shook his head dismissively when John tried to set Margaret back on her feet.

"Don't worry about it, that hardly matters. You'll be married in less than a week. I just came to tell you that everyone has gone. I explained to the Shaws that they'd been too bad-mannered for the two of you to say a proper goodbye. Henry, unfortunately, left without a broken nose. Mother told me that it would be uncharitable of me, even though it was he that was rude first. What a jackass."

Margaret giggled. She wiped her eyes and sat up straighter. "That was my fault for letting Charles bring him. I'd forgotten how awful he was."

"Edith was spitting mad when she left. I hope you told her off."

"Yes, a little unkindly. I might be sorry about it later, but right now all I can think of is all the things I didn't say and should have. Are they going home?"

"I'm not sure. They didn't say that to Mother. Maybe you and Edith can meet up again tomorrow, after things calm down."

"If she lets me. But I'm too angry to want to fix things right now."

.

"You have a visitor waiting in your office, master."

"I'll be there in a moment," John replied distractedly.

After all that had happened yesterday with Margaret's family, he'd been preoccupied all day. His thoughts kept drifting into anger over their shocking rudeness, unhappiness at Margaret's sadness, and irrational fear that this would all come to a head and the wedding would be delayed or called off completely. Last night, he and Margaret had decided that if her family changed their minds and became insistent, the two of them would elope. It was a dramatic plan and probably not needed, but Margaret had seen that John was truly shaken by her family's old-fashioned views on the lower classes, and so had promised that nothing would change between them, even if it meant they had to do something drastic in order to prevent it.

"I think you ought to go straightaway, sir," Williams insisted.

John frown at him. "Is it Margaret?" Margaret never waited for him; she came into the mill to look for him.

"No. But it is a lady, and she looks as if she is unaccustomed to waiting."

John was very surprised to see Edith standing awkwardly in his office, fiddling with her parasol. She was dressed in the outrageous London fashion, her hands encased in net gloves, and her crinoline so wide she must have had to press it in to herself to fit through the door. She looked incredibly out of place.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Lennox. May I be of some assistance?" he asked carefully. He couldn't imagine what might have prompted the ostentatious woman to visit his smoky mill.

"Mr. Thornton. I'm… not quite sure why I'm here," she stuttered. "Perhaps to see the mill Margaret always talked about so happily. It's nothing like I imagined."

John raised an eyebrow. "In a good way or a bad way?"

"It's much larger than I thought. It's like a small town, the constant bustle of people. And your house is beautiful, even though it is odd that it's here, in the thick of things."

Edith was rambling anxiously. John could see she was building to a point of some kind, but too nervous to state it outright.

"The arrangement of the place… it as though you are a Lord, governing over his people."

Margaret had told him she had thought something similar when she first visited Marlborough Mill, but with far less relief that Edith did. It was as if this illusion meant that Edith could trick herself into imagining that Margaret was marrying a gentleman with a title.

"I'm glad you think so," John replied, a little sarcastically.

Edith bit her lip. "You must have thought me very snobbish during our visit yesterday, but be assured that I only want what is best for Margaret."

"And marriage to a member of the gentry is what is best for her?"

"Yes. Marriage is a difficult business. There's so many issues and problems that people don't even think of. If one marries within their own class, at least one can be sure that they have similar opinions."

"Margaret and I do have similar opinions," John told her. "And if we disagree on something, we talk things through. I don't know why everyone imagines we have rushed into this, or not talked about the difficulties we will face."

Edith hesitated, her cheeks reddening. "I also wanted to speak to you about that, these intimate conversations you two seem to be having. I want to know of your… intentions towards her."

John stared at Edith, confused. What on earth was that supposed to mean? "I would've thought my intentions were obvious," he said slowly.

"I'm speaking of your intentions as her husband, and she as your wife. Forgive me for being impolite, but you seem rather stern, and that concerns me greatly. Margaret alluded to the fact that the two of you have spoken about your… marital duties, and the conversation I had with her in London, the words she used –"

"You think because I was stern while you and your family insulted me, that I will somehow be – _unkind_ to her?" he fumed.

"You must have promised her something, or spoken of some forbidden pleasure for her to have her head completely turned like this," Edith insisted. "She never wanted a husband in London, no matter how rich and handsome they were. You've – corrupted her somehow, made her think of something unseemly…"

John took a deep breath to try and control his temper. "Margaret is not empty-headed. She's perfectly able to think for herself and tell me what she wants. Nor am I some… fiend controlled by my impulses."

"She never had thoughts like this before; she wanted a dutiful marriage, until she met you –"

"How would you know?"

"Because she and I share everything! She would've told me!"

"She did tell you. Margaret has been telling you how she feels for months. It's not her fault if you don't believe her."

"How do you know what she's been writing to me? Have you been reading our letters?" gaped Edith, appalled.

"Of course I haven't," John said irritably. "I know because Margaret has been incredibly upset these past months because of your behavior, and she confided in me. She wanted you to support her decision and you have not done so."

"She told you everything?"

"Why wouldn't she? We're going to be married; we don't have secrets from each other."

Edith looked as though she wasn't sure what to make of that. John sighed heavily. "I don't know what it is you want me to say to convince you. It seems to me that you don't want to be convinced. And if you won't listen to Margaret, I don't see why you'd listen to me. All I will say is that there is nothing in the world that matters to me more than her."

Edith stared at him for a moment longer then cast her gaze around his office. She took in the books, the ledgers, the piles of paperwork. She watched the crowed of workers out the window, who were shouting instructions to each other.

"What if I told you that Margaret doesn't feel the same way?" Edith stated, a nasty look in her eye. "She told me that she accepted you before Mr. Bell left her the money. Perhaps she was afraid to be penniless and agreed to marry you so that she wouldn't have to be, and now is too honorable to back out."

John stared her down, not fooled in the least. "Margaret is an educated and incredibly accomplished woman who is wealthy in her own right. If she wanted to break with me, she could, and support herself completely; without me, and even without her family. She chooses to be with me, but she does not _need_ me. Not in that way."

"So I should instead be grateful that you are so tolerant and forward-thinking?" Edith retorted.

"To console yourself over the loss of _what_ , exactly? Margaret is loved, happy and wealthy. That is what you should want for her. The fact that you take exception to my class or demeanor is none of my concern."

Edith huffed angrily, unable to think of a counterpoint. John knew he was being very abrupt but he was rapidly losing patience with the whole affair. He would've been more accommodating – as he had told Margaret he would be – if they hadn't immediately forced him to defend himself. He and Margaret had not anticipated that Edith would have this nasty streak in her and compelled the two families to begin so defensively.

"Good day, Mr. Thornton," she said irritably. Edith swept past him, her dramatic entrance slightly spoilt by her having to pause to maneuver her skirts through the door.

.

.

.

Margaret was surprised when Edith called on her. She expected the Shaws to go home to London, particularly after Edith had been unable to achieve whatever point she wanted when she visited John at the mill yesterday. John had come by that evening to recount the event, neither of them able to make sense of Edith's testiness. She hadn't asked John to call off the wedding, or even asked if he loved her, which was Margaret thought her concern might be. He and Margaret had also been confused by Edith's uneasiness over their intimate relationship, which was hardly her business.

Caoimhe showed Edith into the drawing room. Margaret rose, but didn't greet her cousin. Almost everything about this horrid week had been Edith's fault. This was supposed to be a wonderful time for Margaret and instead, she'd had to spend all her energy intervening in arguments and extending olive branches to people who didn't deserve her tolerance.

"Mr. Thornton already told you what happened," Edith stated when she saw Margaret's coldness.

"Yes. Why did you go and see him?"

"… To see the kind of person he is."

"And?"

"He is very direct. And he is honest, I'll say that for him."

"I told you that already, Edith," said Margaret, rolling her eyes.

"You did, but I didn't think you meant it quite so candidly."

"I'm a truthful person too; rudely so, if you believe Mama. Why would you think I wouldn't be attracted to a man who was the same?"

Edith nodded, conceding the point. "When I read your letters, I was so shocked, Margaret. It was rather out of the blue, even though I know you did that way because you didn't want to be gossiped about. He is nothing like the man I always imagined you marrying and that made me certain that you simply hadn't thought it through carefully enough. I didn't tell Mama or Charles what you said, because I thought their shock would make you come to your senses."

"You talk as if your opinion will make me change my mind. I love you greatly, Edith; but right now, I don't care what you think," Margaret retorted.

Edith winced. "Yes, I suppose I deserved that. I'd always assumed you'd marry someone like my husband, someone detached and unassuming. I don't know why I thought that, actually. You've always been the fervent one of the two of us, so I can't think why I thought you'd want a husband who wasn't. I _am_ shocked about his class, but… not too severely. He's wealthy, which is a good thing. He carries himself well. And he's very proud, but not in an off-putting way. At least, not very much."

Edith sat down on the sofa and took Margaret's hand. "I am dreadfully sorry I behaved so. I wanted to start a fight with the Thorntons and with you because… I was jealous."

Margaret stared at her, stunned. Edith had had everything she'd ever wanted the minute she wanted it; she'd never been jealous of anyone in her life. "Jealous of what?"

"That you could be happy without all the things that made me happy. If it had been me who had to move here, I would've despaired and gone to pieces in a week. But you, you just see the best of everything. And I was senselessly jealous that your life in London was not enough for you and that you had become more content somewhere else, and with someone else. I always hoped we'd be living in the same house, married to brothers even, and raising our children together."

Margaret sighed heavily. "I do want us to be close like that. But we want such different things, and we always have. You think John and I will argue about how to raise children, what about you and I? I don't want a wet nurse or to only see my children for an hour each day. I don't want a husband who spends all his time at his club and then comes home for dinner and falls straight to sleep in a separate bed from me. I _never_ wanted that, even before I met John. This is not his influence. I want to be happy in my marriage, in a different way than you do."

"And you want a passionate intimate relationship with him." It was not a question.

"Yes, very much so. I know those types of things are not encouraged, and rather unseemly, but I do."

"I think you'll change your mind after your wedding night. I wasn't dishonest when I said it's uncomfortable."

"If I do, it'll be my decision, based on my experiences. Not yours."

Edith sighed. "I will say that I think you'll change your mind about this marriage later, as the inevitable problems come up between you. But I can no longer object on the grounds that you haven't thought about it enough. Nor is Mr. Thornton seducing you away. I can see that your opinions are your own."

"As they have always been. I'm shocked you thought I lost my pigheadedness since I left London."

Edith laughed, finally. "Yes, I'm not sure why I thought that either."

Margaret smiled, glad some peace had ultimately been achieved. "So you will stay for the wedding?"

"Of course. I will be happy to."

"And what does Charles say about all this?"

"Oh, he'll stay too, if that's what I want."

"He didn't get annoyed with you about your rudeness?"

"No, why would he? He agreed with me, but once I changed my mind, he'll be happy to stay as well. You know Charles. He's always so amenable."

It wasn't that Margaret wanted Charles to tell his wife off for having an opinion, but she could believe that he also just agreed with everything Edith did. It was better than disagreeing, Margaret reasoned, but must also be rather boring. Who would want to be married to an echo?


	29. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite"

Margaret woke on the morning of her wedding day curiously calm. She was simply glad the day had come at last. She no longer had to think about flowers or favors. Or about her family's disproval or fights and arguments. After today, she could just spend the rest of her time with John, which was what she wanted most.

Sarah arrived very early so as to help Caoimhe and Mama assist Margaret with her preparations. Her hair was pinned up in a sleek style of tucks and curls. The wedding gown was magnificent; a vision of white, with short puffed sleeves and a veil of sheer cotton trimmed with lace as a testament to her fiancé's profession. The veil was attached to a coronet of orange blossoms and tiny red roses that matched her blushing cheeks. Mama handed Margaret her white gloves, the seam of the third finger on her left hand unstitched to allow for easy removal when it came time to put the ring on. Before she pulled them on, Margaret moved engagement ring to right forefinger, so that she would be ready to put the wedding band in it's proper place of honor.

Margaret looked at herself in the mirror and laughed in sheer delight. "I barely recognize myself. I look so beautiful. I hope John will be pleased."

"I'm sure he will," Sarah exclaimed. "I've seen the way Mr. Thornton looks at you. You could turn up in a burlap sack and he'd still think you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on."

"Margaret, the ushers are here for their favors," said Papa, knocking on the door to get their attention. Sarah opened the door and Margaret came out on to the landing, giving a little twirl to show off her gown to her father.

"My darling, you look stunning! Just as a bride ought to be." said Papa. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Your life awaits you, Margaret. Spent it well. You deserve this."

"Thank you, Papa," breathed Margaret, kissing his cheek. She went downstairs to give the ushers their favors; white ribbons affixed with flowers and lace.

Papa helped Margaret into the waiting carriage. It was a beautiful one, pulled by a grey horse for luck. Mama, Papa and Sarah, each in their own wedding ensembles, climbed in after her. The ushers crowded into the carriage in front of them, with Dixon and Caoimhe sitting up the front with the driver.

As they neared the church, Margaret could hear the church bells being rung to announce the wedding. The ushers' carriage pulled up first so that the guests could enter the church and find their places. Caoimhe waved excitedly at Margaret as she disappeared inside.

Mama and Papa alighted first, then Margaret and Sarah; Margaret's gown was so cumbersome she needed the extra help. The head usher guided Margaret to a small vestibule at the front of the church. Margaret spent the last few moments before the ceremony smoothing her dress and making sure her veil draped perfectly.

The ushers and children in the bridal party left the vestibule to walk solemnly up the aisle. Fred appeared right on cue to escort Sarah; Mama left for the alter, escorted by John.

Finally, it was Margaret's turn.

Papa offered his arm to her, almost bursting with pride. The pair of them began their slow ascent to the alter. The manor staff, overseen by Mother, had done a beautiful job with the decorations. Tulle, white rose and baby's breath bouquets were fixed to the end of every pew; rose petals littered the aisle. The alter had likewise been decorated lavishly. The church was so full of people that Margaret grew quite nervous. It was only thought of John waiting for her at the alter that kept her from shaking.

Margaret's eyes caught John's easily. He was gloriously attired in his wedding clothes; an uncharacteristically wide smile was spread across his features.

Once they reached the alter, Mama and Papa stepped back so that Margaret could take her place to John's left. They simultaneously lifted their hands to brush against the other's. They were so preoccupied with staring at each other that they almost missed the clergyman's opening words.

"…Gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained…"

Margaret was barely listening to the clergyman. All she could feel was the press of the veil against her skin and John's warm hand in hers.

The clergyman turned to John and said, "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

John's resounding "I will," echoed in the church and filled Margaret with a deep feeling of happiness. The minister turned to Margaret and said, "Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Margaret did not take her eyes off John as she replied, "I will."

The minister motioned for the couple to join hands; the two of them exchanged the simple, binding vows; promising to stay together for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health; and to love and to cherish each other always, till death parted them.

Margaret quickly pulled off her glove, handing it to Sarah. John took her hand, running his thumb over her fingers.

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." John gently slid the beautiful diamond ring onto her finger. The silver band was cold for the briefest moment, before warming to her body.

John gave Margaret a dazzling smile as the both knelt before the minister for the prayer. The minister joined their hands together once more.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," he boomed, "forasmuch John and Margaret have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

A psalm was spoken, the required reverent questions asked and answered. The minister spoke prayers for a long life full of children and bound them to love each other completely and faithfully. His calming voice detailed John's new duties towards Margaret as her husband, and Margaret's responsibilities as his wife. The two of them received communion, then the minister told all to go in peace.

Margaret signed her maiden name for the final time in the parish registry book beside John's. As soon as they were done, John stepped close to her and rested his forehead against hers briefly, before lifting her veil and casting it behind her. He kissed her, his expression one of triumph.

Mama and Papa came to congratulate her; Mama holding her handkerchief to her eyes. Her new mother-in-law embraced her blithely, a rusty smile on her face. She looked lovely in her beautiful mauve dress; she had dressed in half mourning, given the importance of the occasion.

Everyone got up from the pews and began crushing to the front to offer their congratulations. It was a blur of faces as Margaret greeted everyone in front of her. Mama and Papa left first, to get to the manor for the final preparations of the wedding breakfast.

John put his hand on Margaret's lower back and guided her slowly back up the aisle to the waiting carriage. Margaret knew it was bad taste to acknowledge anyone as they walked, but she couldn't help grinning widely at several guests, including Edith and Mr. Bell. The guests outside the church threw rice over the jubilant couple. John lifted Margaret easily into the open air carriage. As soon as he sat next to her, he kissed her soundly.

"Was it as you wished?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes. It was wonderful. Everything was beautiful; just as I imagined," replied Margaret, eyes shining. John smiled.

"Good. We only have a few more hours to get through, then you are all mine," he said, kissing her hands fervently. Margaret's stomach swooped happily at the thought.

The drive to the manor was made longer by the fact that the streets were crowded with people. Most of them seemed to be John's employees as many waved excitedly to them as they passed, enjoying the holiday he'd given them. Bystanders stopped to watch the procession; merchants and their customers came out of their stores to see what all the noise was about. Margaret waved to several people she recognized, bewildered by the amount of attention they were receiving. It was as though she was a princess, not a common woman marrying her love.

"Mother did say all of Milton'd want to know of the marriage. I don't think she imagined this though," said John, also looking bemusedly at the crowds.

"It's a testament to how important you are in Milton," Margaret said proudly.

"Or to your beauty," smirked John, drawing her to him for another kiss.

The carriage rolled into the courtyard. Many of their guests had already arrived; the yard was full of vehicles of all shapes and sizes. The gifts were displayed beautifully in the drawing room with the names of the giver attached to tags on each gift, addressed appropriately to Margaret as the bride. The new couple had received several intricate vases; two silver salvers; a few good paintings; many, many books; a chess set; a pair of painted fire screens; as well as more personal items such as perfume and cuff links. Margaret thanked each of the benefactors heartily.

The food was laid out in the dining room, the table groaning under all the dishes that Mother had thought necessary. The wedding cake stood in the place of honor. Margaret was glad she had trusted her mother-in-law's judgment; it was gorgeously decorated with white icing and sugared flowers. The meal was an informal one, with much talking and laughing. Margaret ate very little, her attention on John. Everyone came to offer their congratulations and affections for the new couple.

The time flew by. Soon it was time for the cake to be cut, toasts to be drunk; then Margaret was whisked upstairs to change out of her wedding gown and into her russet-coloured traveling outfit and matching bonnet. John too, changed into his travelling coat and lead her to the carriage. More rice and a few slippers were thrown by the guests as the carriage left for the station.

Fred had gone on ahead so that he could arrange for their luggage to be taken onto the train. Fred alone knew where John and Margaret were going for their honeymoon and was supposed to keep it a secret. No doubt that would mean that everyone would know by the end of the day.

"You looked beautiful, my darling sister," Fred told her warmly. "Have the best time. Forget about all of us here behind and just enjoy yourselves."

John shook Fred's hand and thanked him for being his best man.

"Don't even mention it, I was glad to do so. Repay me by taking care of Margaret."

"I will," promised John, echoing his vows from earlier.

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The journey to Yorkshire had been lovely; they had chatted the time away easily. Dinner in the inn dining room had likewise been pleasant, and the food excellent. But now, back in their rooms, a sudden awkwardness had descended on the both of them. They knew what was to happen – what they _wanted_ to happen – but were unsure how to proceed to the point. Margaret fiddled with the gold bracelet on her arm. She gave him a shy smile, then turned to the dressing table and began to remove her jewelry.

John swallowed. Whether they were nervous or not, Margaret could not sleep in her dress and would need assistance in removing her many articles of clothing. Normally a chambermaid would be called, but he loathed to let anyone into their little paradise. He moved to stand behind her.

"Here, let me help you," he murmured. Margaret's hands stilled and John unclasped her necklace, placing it gently on the table in front of them. Hands shaking slightly, he began to pull the many pins from her hair. It tumbled down almost to her waist. John's mouth went dry. He'd never seen a woman's hair down like this before; it made her even more captivating. He kneaded his fingers against her scalp, smoothing back her hair. She gave a contented sigh at the sensation.

Margaret turned slowly to face him. She was blushing furiously, but determinedly reached for his cravat and pulled it until it unwound from his throat. She let the fabric slip through her fingers and flutter to the floor. John lent in and captured her mouth in a kiss. They pulled back and stared at each other for a moment before both laughing lightly at their embarrassment.

"Could you… could you help me with the buttons?" Margaret whispered, turn back to him once more. John slowly worked his way down the line of buttons on the back of her dress. Once it became possible to remove it, Margaret pushed it down her body to the floor. John peeled the cotton camisole from her body, revealing her corset and petticoat. He was able to remove the petticoat without much difficulty, but the corset was more confusing. Margaret had to show him how to pull the laces through the eyelets.

"I've often wondered… is wearing a corset painful? It is laced quite tightly," John asked her, as he pulled the ties out with effort.

Margaret giggled. "You get used to it. And it's only evening wear and special occasions that you take such care. During the day, one is allowed to be a little less restrictive."

The corset finally removed, Margret took it from him and put it on the chair with her dress. She stood before him, clad only in her shift and stockings. The cotton was so thin that he could see the swell of her femininity beneath the fabric. His breath rushed out.

Margaret looked embarrassed, so he smiled at her encouragingly. She took a step towards him and began to return the favor, helping him with his clothes. Thankfully, his garments were not as complicated and he was soon standing only in his long shirt. John clasped Margaret's hands tightly in his own, bringing them up to his mouth to kiss. Margaret looked at him timidly from beneath her lashes.

"I don't know what to do," she murmured. "That is, I know in theory what must happen but… I don't know how to begin."

"I am not well-versed either," he said amusedly. "But I think I know how to begin." He lent in to kiss her once more, but Margaret's breathless question halted him.

"You have not… been with a woman before?"

John drew back to look at her, surprised by the question. "No. Is that surprising to you? Did you think otherwise?"

"No," she shook her head emphatically. "Sorry, I don't know why I said it like that. I only meant that I am aware that rules for men and women are different in terms of the physical aspect of marriage. What is forbidden for women is not always so for men."

"That's true. But I have not. Even if I had the inclination, which I didn't, my thoughts have been consumed by my work. Until you."

Margaret smiled at that. She sat on the edge of the bed so that she could remove her stockings. He knelt in front of her, and halted her movements so that he could remove them himself, kissing the exposed flesh of her leg as it was revealed to him. Margaret sighed, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. He pulled off her left stocking first and saw she was wearing another piece of jewelry; an odd thick chain around her ankle, which was hung with trinkets.

She laughed at the puzzled look on his face. "Fred gave it to me a few years ago. Indian brides wear them, so I thought it was appropriate for today."

"I've never seen anything like it before," he said, letting the trinkets ripple over his fingers. "It suits you. You always do something unexpected. Will you ever cease to surprise me?" he said wonderingly.

She smiled lovingly. "I hope not." She reached down and unfastened the chain from her ankle. He took it from her and put it on the dressing table, then kissed her knee, resuming his task. He left her shift on in case she wanted to preserve some modesty.

She stood up again and reached for the cuffs on his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons and she eased his shirt from his body.

He stood before her, completely naked.

Margaret's eyes were wide, her blush deepened, but she didn't look away. She reached out to gently caressed the skin on his chest and stomach. She walked slowly around him, trailing her hands along his body. He stood stock still, letting her. He wanted her to be relaxed and if that meant letting her familiarizing herself with the male form, he would be her subject gladly. She stood before him once more and gazed up into his face with reverence.

"You look just like a marble statue," she breathed, running her hands down his chest. "Your body looks as though it has been sculpted from stone."

John was awed to hear her say so, thankful that he was as alluring to her as she was to him. He kissed her, sliding his tongue against hers. He used the distraction to quickly sweep her own garment from her, wanting to see her in all her glory as well.

His eyes took in her body hungrily. Her pale skin was smooth, her shape perfect. He ran his hands eagerly down her arms, over her breasts and down to her waist. He continued to kiss her as he guided her to the bed, the two of them edging carefully to the centre of the large mattress. He reverently lowered himself to cover her body with his. They both gasped at the feeling of so much bare skin touching. Margaret sucked in a breath when she felt the evidence of his desire pressed against her naked thigh. He held still for a while, letting them feel the sensations more fully. Her breasts pressed against his chest everything she inhaled; her body stretched gloriously beneath his own.

"What does it feel like? My body against yours?" he murmured.

"Heat," she sighed. "Stars have touched my skin."

John groaned, thrilled that she was excited as he was. He trailed his lips over any part of her body that took his fancy, returning often to capture her mouth in ardent kisses, which Margaret returned passionately, threading her fingers though his hair. She was shifting carefully beneath him, perhaps trying to find a comfortable position, but it was turning his blood to fire. He was panting heavily now, grinding his hips harder against her. John rose up on his elbows and pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closing. His fingers seemed to move of their own volition, trailing themselves down her ribcage and to her hip. He positioned himself to take her, when he suddenly remembered.

"It will hurt you, won't it?" he whispered, opening his eyes and looking at her disquietly. In the bliss of the moment, he'd forgotten this fact.

Margaret reached up to put her palm to his cheek; he leaned into her touch. "Yes," she murmured, "but only for a moment. And only this first time."

"I don't want to hurt you, not even for an instant," he said, the distress evident in his tone. She laughed lightly.

"It'll only be for a moment," she insisted, pulling him down to kiss her again. He returned it, but then pulled back slightly.

"Dig your nails sharply into me whenever you feel pain." Margaret looked questioningly at him, and he elaborated. "If I cannot spare you the pain, I might at least share it."

Margaret looked at him with such love and appreciation. "Thank you, John," she said softly. She pressed her forehead to his again.

Her nails did scratch deeply against his skin several times during the first few minutes of their encounter. But he soon found the right movements, and could remove his hand to link his fingers through hers. He whispered words of love in her ear and soon her other hand relaxed and moved to press against his back. He groaned at the pleasure of their bodies together at last. He couldn't believe the feel of her; it was even better than his dreams.

She was invitingly warm and tight around him; he had to keep reminding himself to go slowly, clenching his jaw in torment. As she became more accustomed to the feel of him, he began to drive himself into her, wanting to reach the deepest part of her, all the way to her soul. His movements became more erratic as everything grew more pleasurable; their slick skin sliding against each other, their hot gasping breaths mingling, feeling Margaret's pulse against every _inch_ of his body… His pleasure rushed up to claim him and he seized her mouth in a bruising kiss right as it did so, moaning into her mouth.

John held himself still, panting wildly, trying not to collapse his weight on her. His body was shaking with exhaustion. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and kissed Margaret again; thankful, sated. He carefully eased himself off her body, not wanting to hurt her. Stretching out next to her, he pulled her to nestle herself against his body. Margaret curled her body around him; her fingers skimming over the outline of the muscles on his chest.

"Are you alright, my love?" he asked her tenderly.

"Yes," she smiled. "I'm perfectly fine. And you?"

John grinned. "I am exhausted, satisfyingly so. That was beyond better than what I'd been imagining."

Margaret made a noise of contentment and snuggled herself closer to him. After a few moments, she said hesitantly, "You seemed to know what you were doing, even though you have no experience. You didn't falter at all, after the question about the pain."

"Ah. Well, I said I was a novice, but I'm not completely uneducated in the subject."

Margaret drew herself up onto her elbows to look at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

It was John's turn to flush. "When I was away at school, one of my classmates brought a book with him and it made the rounds of all the boys. It was an erotic story about a woman who loses her virtue for the first time, to a married man who kept multiple lovers. It was short and poorly written, but its stayed in my mind. It went into great detail about the act, and I just… applied what I'd read."

Margaret looked as though she didn't know whether to express shock or humor at his explanation. Finally, she laughed, to his relief. "Did it happen exactly as the book said?" she asked curiously, laying back down against him.

"Mostly. Although the story went into more detail about the woman's pleasure at the act. Something about 'all her desires rushing up to drown her in bliss until she screamed' or some such thing like that. I assumed some of it to be exaggerated. It was clearly a man writing it, after all."

Margaret was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she asked,

"Is that what you felt there at the end? A huge rush of desire?"

John chuckled and buried his face in her beautiful hair. "I've felt desire from almost the moment I met you," he smirked. "But tonight, it was more… concentrated. I could feel it welling up inside me, getting stronger and stronger until it suddenly dragged me under. That is when the encounter is… finished," he told her, trying to find words to describe the amazing things he felt earlier; his body still purring with the pleasure of it.

"That is what I felt," Margaret told him, so quietly he almost missed it. He urged her off his chest so he could look at her properly. Her face was flaming with embarrassment.

"A wave of desire?" he asked her.

"Not exactly like that. Not as you described it. But I did feel… a burning under my skin. It got more intense the longer you touched me. It was focused –," she indicated to the most secreted part of her body, "– but spread all over when you moved against me. But it didn't overtake me. It faded away after it was over."

John thought about that for a moment. That was indeed similar to what he felt. "It can recede for me as well. Sometimes, when I dreamt of you, I'd wake up to such an intense desire it was almost aching. But if I thought about something else, it'd go away, without the rush of feeling."

Margaret looked placated at his words. John sat up and pulled her into his lap. He kissed her sweetly, thinking for a moment. "Did it feel as though it _could_ consume you? If I had kept going?" he whispered against her skin. Margaret bit her lip and nodded apologetically. He hugged her close.

"I'm not offended, my love. I didn't know that you'd feel it in the same way I did. But now that I do… may I try something?"

"What are you going to do?" she breathed.

"Something else I read in that book," he grinned. "Similar to what we just did… but using my hands instead." He illustrated the point by gently sliding the tip of his forefinger into her body. Margaret stilled at the intimate contact, her mouth falling open. Slowly, she nodded.

He and Margaret spent the rest of the evening and the early hours of the morning learning that, yes; they could indeed both be drowned in bliss.

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*Authors Note: I hope I have made the scene believable. Margaret and John are Victorian with Victorian morals, but they are also intensely passionate people. And they are well educated. They would have known that morals were not always as strict as they were in their era, as Margaret demonstrates when she talks about the clothing of fifty years prior. In Jane Austen's time, a woman was able to socialize or even go on carriage rides with a man, without damaging her reputation. Regency women even used to dampen their undergarments with water to show off their figures.

Female sexuality was taboo in the 19th century and it was believed that women were not sexual beings and couldn't have orgasms. Their discussion about their physical feelings was done to make it more natural about how their sex life developed. John is a principled person and would not have engaged in sex before marriage, but their honest conversation helped him become less of a novice about pleasing Margaret.


	30. Chapter 28

*A/N: One of my absolute favourite chapters to write and to read. Enjoy!

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Chapter 28

"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night"

The next day, the two of them woke late and ate breakfast together in their room. Again, not wanting to bring a stranger into their seclusion, John helped Margaret dress. The corset baffled him going on as much as it did coming off and Margaret laughed heartily at him.

They did nothing more exciting than go for a long walk on the moor, but John did not mind in the least. The scenery was stunning; hilly, purple and expansive. A strong wind whipped around them, filling their clothes and hair with the spicy scent of heather. They walked for hours, relishing their freedom.

He worried Margaret would get tired quickly with the intense exercise, but she showed no signs of slowing down; bouncing about him, chatting easily about anything that caught her imagination. She scrunched a few stalks of the heather between her hands to release more of their scent.

"We must take some back with us, and dry it out. So we will always remember our time here," she told him happily. He swept his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

When dusk fell, they made their way back to the inn for dinner. Afterwards, Margaret sent John up to their room first, wanting to stay and ask a question of one of the kitchen staff. She was gone long enough that John was already in a nightshirt and in bed with a book when she returned, gleefully hiding something behind her back.

"What are you hiding?" he asked, glaring at her with mock severity.

"We are going to play a game," she told him, her eyes full of mirth.

"A game?" he laughed, setting his book aside.

"Yes. A question game." She pulled her object from behind her back; it was an unopened bottle of whiskey and a glass tumbler. She wrinkled her nose. "They only gave me one glass, even though I said I wanted whiskey for the two of us. Clearly, they don't want me to drink it."

John sniggered. "Maybe they were right; women aren't allowed to drink liquor."

"Hush, you. It'll be fun, I promise. Help me undress first."

Together, they made short work of getting her out of her dress and into her cotton nightgown. John had been planning to prolong the intimate task as he had last night, but found he was more eager to know what she was up to. Margaret climbed into the bed and sat crossed legged facing him.

"We're going to take turns asking each other questions. We can ask each other anything we like, but if you don't want to answer you have to take a sip," she explained. She poured a generous measure of whiskey into the glass, almost to the brim. John grinned at her naivety. "If the questioner thinks the other person did not answer the question well enough, the answerer has to drink a forfeit. Alright?" Still chuckling, John nodded and took the proffered glass.

"I'll go first. What's your favourite colour?"

"My favourite _colour_?" repeated John incredulously. "That's the question you're going to start with? You ought to drink a penalty for that!"

"Do you know my favourite colour?" she demanded.

"Well… no."

She grinned triumphantly. "See? We're learning more about each other already. Answer the question." He huffed, secretly pleased by her bossy tone.

"Dark red. Like the drawing room," he said after a moment's reflection. Margaret smirked, as though at some private joke. "Alright, my turn. If you were an animal, what would you be?"

"A butterfly. No, they don't live very long, do they? A cat. What habit do you hate most in others?"

"Why, are you trying to start a fight with me?" he smirked.

"I want to know in case I need to spend the day irritating you on purpose."

"Kisses, then. They irritate me." Margaret laughed but made him take a drink anyway.

"What is your earliest memory?" he asked. Her eyes lit up at his good question.

"I was three or four, I think. I was in church with my mother. Fred must have been there too but I don't really remember it. I was making a fuss and Mama kept getting more and more impatient with me. She started to sing softly to me to calm me, which worked, until I got too excited about it. I yelled the song, right in the middle of Papa's sermon. Mama was mortified."

"You've not changed your musical talents much since then," he chortled.

"Oh! You–" She elbowed him lightly in the stomach. She crossed her arms in mock petulance and cast about for another question. "Tell me what your routine is; what do you normally do every day?"

John lent back into the pillows. "I get up early, usually at half five, to go the mill. I make sure everything is working order and make note of anything that needs to be done. I tell Williams and the superintendents the quota that needs to be filled by each shed. I answer business letters, go over the books. I walk over the mill a few times to see that everything is running smoothly. I usually go back home for the noon meal, but not if it's busy. At the end of the day I mark down what was achieved so that I can be ready for the next day." He paused for a moment. "It sounds tedious when I say it like that," he said, a little apologetically.

Margaret gave him a lopsided smile. "Everyone's day sounds monotonous when they list it in that fashion. But you confirmed what I already knew; you need to keep busy. You'd not be happy otherwise, just like me."

He grinned proudly. "What is your idea of a perfect day?" he asked her, playing with a lock of her hair.

"One where I accomplished something. Any day I am with you," she replied, her expression softening. Margaret shifted closer to him and ran her fingers over his jaw. "What do people misunderstand most about you?"

"My sense of humor," he said with a straight face.

"I'll say! I didn't know you had one!"

"Cheek!" he laughed, nipping playfully at the hand she held to his face. She drew away with a squeal.

"What do people misunderstand about _you_?" he asked, curious.

"You have to take a sip! You can't ask me to answer the same question I asked you," she insisted.

"That wasn't in the rules!" he protested.

"Well, I'm putting it in now."

John grumbled good-naturedly and took another sip. "What is your favourite thing about yourself?" he asked instead.

"My husband," she stated, impishly batting her eyelashes at him.

"Aye, I'm pleased by that answer, but it still wasn't what I was looking for. Your turn to take a drink." He handed her the glass and she took a large mouthful as punishment. Her eyes bulged slightly; she coughed and spluttered on the raw taste of the whiskey. John doubled up laughing, quickly catching the glass before she spilt it.

"That was horrid!" Margaret wheezed. "How disappointing! I've always envied men being able to drink this, it always looked so warm and inviting. Now I'm certain it's just a conspiracy; none of you really like it, you're just pretending."

"It does take some getting used to," agreed John, still chuckling.

"What's your favourite food?" she asked him, her voice slightly hoarse.

"Hmm… salmon."

"Oh, that's a good one; mine's ice cream. I'd get monstrously fat if I ate it all the time. If you could meet anyone in history who would it be?"

"Henry the Eighth."

"Why?" she asked in disbelief.

"To ask him what the hell he was thinking, cycling through so many wives as he did. You are going to be the only wife I ever have."

Margaret giggled. "We've only been married for two days! Maybe once we've been married ten years you'll decide I'm utterly annoying and beg the courts for a divorce."

"Never," he vowed, dragging her closer to him and kissing her. When they pulled away from each other, he asked, "What three things do you think we have in common?"

"Another good question," she smiled. "… We're both hardworking, kind and… clever."

"I don't think I'm kind," he objected. "Not to everyone at least, as you are. I'm only kind to you. And Mother."

"Of course you are! Not in the most obvious way, but you always do what's best for your employees and your family. That makes you kind." John snorted, but didn't protest further. He didn't think he was a compassionate person by any stretch of the imagination. It was only Margaret's influence that made him more aware of his actions on others.

"What's your greatest fear?" she asked him

"Losing you," he replied instantly, his expression diming slightly.

She huffed. "Besides me."

"…Fire." Margaret's gaze softened in understanding and she lent in and gave him a quick kiss to dispel the unhappy thoughts. He caught her and held her to him.

"What is something I do that makes you feel loved?" he whispered against her skin.

Margaret smiled at him. "When you call me 'my love' or 'darling'; when you wrap your arms around me tightly. When you watch me in that intense way of yours." John's heartbeat quickened at that; he made a mental note to always address her thus from now on.

"What is something you once had to _un_ learn?" Margaret asked him. John leant back against the pillows again. He rubbed small circles on the smooth skin of her inner arm as he contemplated the question.

"…My control issues. In the mill and at home. Going from poverty to wealth had a lot to do with it. When we were poor, I earned such a small income to support us that it made me even more domineering, because I controlled everything; the job I did, how the money was spent. I knew that I never wanted to be poor again, and that meant saving every shilling I could spare, and I often went without to achieve it. The first few years I oversaw the mill, I still economized greatly, even though I had a good income. Mother and I got into more than a few arguments about what the money could and couldn't be used for. She knew that our new lifestyle needed a different type of focus than what we had previously, but I fought her about it for so long. We stayed in very modest accommodation for years longer than we needed to as a result. My arguments won out in the end; it was how I was able to build the manor and purchase the mill. But winning the argument only made me worse, I think. And every time mother wanted to take a new step up the ladder of society; hiring an experienced cook, buying a carriage, hiring footman… I fought her on all those too. Some she won, some I grinded in my heels; like not having any footman. It's only in the last few years that I've been… relaxed enough to spend money as a gentleman should. Once I became aware that I was past being economical and had descended into downright pigheadedness." He grinned suddenly. "So be prepared for a row when you tell me you want to buy ten horses, and spend a fortune at the milliners!"

"Ah, I thought so! Well then, we are going to have endless arguments," Margaret jested, making a face at him. She laughed then shook her head slightly. "You know I wouldn't do that. I don't need hundreds of new gowns to be happy; I just need you, even if you hadn't a penny. And you call it pigheaded, I call it being reasonable. It's a virtue in my mind."

"If you say so," he replied, relieved. He was glad she told him that. He did fear that he would upset her with his propensity to be overbearing. Luckily, Margaret was more than willing to call him out on his behaviour when she thought he was out of line.

"What's your worst habit?" he asked her cheekily.

"Oh no, that's an awful question! Probably that I talk too much," she laughed.

"You don't talk too much," he disagreed, "it only seems that way in comparison to me. That was a terrible answer; take a drink." Margaret obliged, and took another large sip as punishment, cringing at the taste again. The glass was almost empty now.

"What is the best way to start the day?" she asked.

John grinned wickedly. "You mean now that we're married?"

Margaret was unused to hard liquor; when she tried to shift playfully away from his grasping hands, she almost pitched off the bed, causing them both to dissolve into laughter.

"Waking up next to you is the best way to start any day. I've never slept so soundly as I have this past night," he told her, holding her tight.

"I think exhaustion had something to do with it," Margaret replied cheekily.

"Of the best kind," he agreed. He thought for a few moments then asked her, "If you had to only pick drawing or sewing as your interest, which would you choose?"

"Oh, lord… drawing."

Their questions continued in that fashion for some time. Margaret chose autumn over summer, rain over sun, Paris over London. John stated that he'd rather ride an elephant than a camel (John made her take another drink for that absurd question), and be able to fly rather than turn invisible.

"What is the most ridiculous fact you know?" asked Margaret.

"It's illegal to wear a suit of armor in the Houses of Parliament."

She snorted with laughter. "Really? If we ever go to London together, that's the first thing we're going to do."

"I think it would be uncomfortable. The suits look very unyielding. You'd have to walk so stiffly." He playfully mimed the movement with his body, causing Margaret to burst into giggles again.

"What's something that you heard as a child but didn't understand until you were older?" he asked her.

"Hmm… When I was little I heard Papa talking to his brother about his visit to the Sistine Chapel. I thought he said the _Sixteenth_ Chapel and wondered why no one ever spoke of visiting the First Chapel or the Tenth Chapel. I believed that until I was fifteen, at least."

John laughed and downed the last of the whiskey in the glass before leaning over to place it on the floor. He sat up, circling his legs around her frame. He pulled her towards to him and kissed her passionately. When they parted, Margaret was bright and breathless.

"I like the taste of whiskey this way," she whispered daringly, tracing his lower lip with her tongue. He groaned and pulled her more tightly towards him.

Their game was abandoned in favour of a much more pleasurable one.

.

.

.

Margaret awoke in the late morning, drowsy and satisfied. John's arms were encircled around her; she reveled in the warmth of his body, the strength of him. They had learnt a lot about each other last night. Everything he told her made her love him even more. They had similar temperaments and values, with just enough conflicting traits to always keep their interactions lively.

She'd also learnt that his intensity transferred across to _all_ areas of his life. He was diligent in his exploration of her body, cataloging what caused her gasps of pleasure so that he could repeat the movements until she was almost crying with lust.

The whiskey last night had made her bolder; she studied his body too, and discovered the delicious way he groaned when she pressed herself against him and bit at the skin on his neck. That she could affect him in that way made her feel powerful.

Their first time together had been magical. She'd almost wept when he gently told her that he wanted to share the pain of it. He'd been considerate and attentive, and even though she'd not had the rush of desire as he did that first time, John was a fast learner and was soon able to pleasure her expertly. They learnt it took longer for Margaret to reach her peak than it did for John, and usually when he used his hands, but he didn't care. In fact, he seemed to savor watching her climb higher and higher and enjoyed pleasing her this way.

Margaret sat up and draped her arms around her legs, watching her sleeping husband. He looked much more peaceful when he was asleep, the lines of tension around his eyes disappeared completely. She drifted her forefinger lightly down his naked back, pulling the sheet down as she went.

She had a greater appreciation for his body now. His sinewy muscles, the small tendons in his hands that tensed when he touched her. She noticed his upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower one. He had a thin scar across one shoulder blade and another in his hairline that was covered by the drape of his hair; he told her they were from falling off out of a tree when he was young. She marveled again at how strong he was. Every time he moved above her, she could feel the ripple of his muscles beneath her hands. He was able to lift her up effortlessly and wrap her legs around his waist. Enfolded in his strong arms, she felt cherished and protected; nothing bad could ever happen to her there.

"What are you thinking so deeply about?"

John's sleep roughened voice made her jump. She hadn't realized he was awake.

"Just admiring you; how beautiful you are," she told him lightly. He laughed and rolled on to his back. He lifted his hand to her face and swept her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.

"Gawking at my chiseled physique?" he teased.

Margaret blushed, remembering how she had told him he looked like a marble statute. She jutted out her chin.

"Yes," she insisted. "How is it you are so powerfully built?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "From the mill, I suppose. The machinery is heavy and I have to fix it myself if it breaks down. The ships and trains keep to a sharp timetable; if we are running behind schedule I help the workers load the carts."

"See, you _are_ kind; and a good employer. You help your workers when they need it, instead of snapping at them for their tardiness."

"Oh, I do that too, if it's deserved."

Margaret huffed. "Well, you must help them more often than you shout at them, otherwise you'd look as portly as Hamper," she teased.

John gave her a revolted look. "I'll thank you not to make me think of that man while I'm naked in bed with my wife."

Margaret giggled, stretching out to lay next to him again. He began carding his fingers through her tangled hair.

"What would you like to do today?" she asked him, after several minutes of comfortable silence.

"Exactly what we're doing now," he replied lazily.

"We can't stay in bed all day," she protested. "What would the maids think?"

"I don't give a damn what they think."

"We can't come all the way to Yorkshire and not explore," cajoled Margaret, trying a different tack.

John laughed lightly. "Very well. But we have to be back at a reasonable hour, so that we go to bed early. I far prefer you undressed than covered in yards of fabric."

They helped each other dress, the process hindered by John running his hands over her body before covering it with the garments. Margaret almost abandoned her plan entirely when John helped her with her stockings; his warm hands ghosting teasingly over her flushed skin as he did so. Judging by his smirk, he's done it purposely to aggravate her. She'd tried to get him back but he was too quick at dancing out of her reach, his eyes full of mirth.

They decided to go to Rievaulx Abbey, as it was close enough for them to walk to; only an hour away. The stone abbey loomed over the skyline as the grew closer. Margaret had not realized how huge it was. The expansive shape of the monastery dominated the space, the outer buildings crumbling around it; having not survived the test of time. Margaret and John walked hand in hand through the grounds, marveling at the beauty of the place. The day was slightly overcast, but enough sun had soaked into the walls that they were warm beneath Margaret's palm.

There were a few other people here and there; but the happy couple paid them no attention. John even kissed her breathless in the chapel, pulling back and laughing before she had a chance to say a word. He was clearly trying to tease her, wanting to make her regret her decision to leave their bedroom. She scolded him, but it was a half-hearted attempt; she was weakening and he knew it.

She starting talking mindlessly to distract him – and herself – and was soon caught up in her description of the abbey and its dissolution during the sixteen century; drawing John into an argument despite himself, and he looked chagrined when he realized what she'd done. Margaret laughed joyfully and pranced away from him. He lunged after her and they were soon engaged in a game of chase, dodging in and out of the pillars like a pair of children.

The sun burst from the clouds and it soon became too hot to continue. They settled in the shade, leaning against a low stone wall. Margaret unpinned her bonnet and fanned her warm face for several minutes, closing her eyes against the glaring sun.

"I shouldn't have tried to run in a corset," she said, a little breathlessly.

"I can help you remove it if you want," John replied, his voice full of humor.

"Stop that," she said weakly. She opened her eyes to rebuke him further but was distracted by his appearance. He'd forgone his hat and his cravat was only tied lightly. He too was sweaty from their exercise in the sun, and Margaret was instantly reminded of the last time she had seen him similarly exerted; when he was looming over her, taking her with deep, powerful thrusts.

He saw her expression change and he chuckled darkly. "Perhaps I won't have to wait to get you back into bed; you look half ready to pounce on me right now."

"You certainly think highly of yourself," she retorted haughtily. "I'll do no such thing."

"Really?" he said, grinning disbelievingly. He shifted closer to her so that he could whisper in her ear. "You're saying you don't want me buried inside you, marking you with my lips, my tongue running over your skin…" His warm breath filled her ear, followed by his tongue. Margaret's breath rushed out, her head falling back in ecstasy.

John pulled away from her, then laughed at the look of indignant frustration upon her face.

"You're not playing fair," she gasped.

"I've no problem with you saying such things back to me," he said smugly.

"We're in public!"

"No one would hear."

"No, but they would see the result of it. I won't be able to resist you, and we'd have to make love right here, quickly and silently, before anyone could happen upon us."

Margaret deliberately painted the picture of it, wanting to pay him back for igniting her desire. It worked; he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening with lust. They stared each other down, smirking, their breath mingling, daring the other to make the first move.

John broke away first. He scrambled to his feet, pulling her with him. "Come on," he chuckled. "We'd better get back anyway. We've been here almost three hours and it'll take us another hour to walk back."

The pair walked back to the inn faster than they had walked to the Abbey, grinning sneakily at each other; neither willing to admit why they were rushing. The result was such that as soon as their bedroom door closed behind them, they tore frantically at each other's clothes, desperate to feel each other's skin again.

After removing her dress and camisole, John grew frustrated with the complexity of her attire and simply pushed her shift up out of the way and lifted her off her feet, drawing her stocking-clad legs around his waist. Margaret only had time to remove his waistcoat and unbutton his trousers before he collapsed them both to the bed. There was no slow exploration this time; he drove himself into her completely on the second thrust. Margaret clenched her inner muscles instinctively against this new intensity, eliciting a hoarse groan from him.

He cursed softly. "Oh, do that again."

She repeated the movement every time he pushed himself back into her, finding that it increased her pleasure too. He pushed himself up, straightening his arms, his hands placed on either side of her head. Margaret glided her legs higher up his body just as he shifted himself inside her. This new, deeper angle elicited moans from the both of them, and they fought to retain the position while their movements became faster.

"More, John! Please…faster…"

Her breathless plea proved to be his undoing; he increased his fervor, driving himself into her again and again until he finally came apart with a cry; her own desire washing over her at the sight of it.

He kissed and licked her sweaty skin, back up to her mouth.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked anxiously.

"No," she assured him, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead and smiling widely at him. "That was exactly what I wanted."

He gave her a wicked grin then leant his head against her breast to listen to her rapid heartbeat. They lay there for what seemed like an age in order to get their breath back, before John rung for a chambermaid and asked for hot water to be brought up to the bath in their rooms for Margaret.

She undressed quickly, then climbed into the tub, sinking happily into the water. She was surprised and pleased when John joined her, easing himself into the bath behind her and urging her to lay back against his chest.

They relaxed sleepily, occasionally talking softly. They both discovered that muscles they never had call to use before were quite sore, as Margaret found when she tried to stretch and several areas of her body protested irately. John gently massaged her thighs and lower back, causing Margaret to sag luxuriously against him.

"Why are you so good to me?" sighed Margaret.

John chuckled in her ear. "I can think of a reason."

"Oh, so I'm only here for one thing, am I?"

"Aye. Why did you think you were here?"

She splashed him indignantly and he laughed.

They bathed each other, Margaret teasing John that the scent of her jasmine soap was going to follow him back to the mill, making all his employees laugh at him. He cupped water in his hands and poured it over her hair, rubbing the wet strands between his hands to cleanse them. Margaret showed him how to twist it into a braid so that it was out of the way. They lay quietly, almost dozing, until the water cooled and their grumbling stomachs forced them to dress again and order dinner to be brought to their rooms.

.

.

.

"I want all of you, constantly. Just you. I wish there was something we could do to keep it that way," he mused, watching the firelight throw patterns over her bare skin. At her look of utter shock, he almost tripped over his words trying to explain. "I do want children! Of course I do; desperately so, especially now they will be ours. But I also wish it could be just the two of us for a while longer."

Margaret's distressed expression faded and she wrinkled her nose slightly; a sure sign she was thinking of something. "There is a way," she said slowly. "We would have to be careful, but…"

"What is it?"

"Well, a woman has monthly courses that tell her she is not with child; we bled for a few days. And a woman is more likely to get with child on the opposite side of that, sort of… in the middle. If we were together only during the times when I am unlikely to get pregnant…"

"Does it hurt, the bleeding?" he asked, momentarily distracted by that admission.

"Not really. Only a bit uncomfortable. You learn tricks to subdue the ache of it. And during the times in the middle… we could… just do other things." She blushed scarlet.

"Do all women know of this? It seems it'd be very helpful."

"Yes, I'm sure a lot do. It's the men that don't." She rolled her eyes in exasperation, then looked chagrined. "Sorry, I didn't mean–"

"It's alright, I understand." He grinned and shifted closer to her, dragging her right leg onto his hip. "So if we only use our hands–" he breathed into her ear, causing her to tremble "–during those times, and only be together on the outside of it, you'll be less likely to fall pregnant?"

"Yes," she agreed, "but it's not absolute. I might still." She played absently with a lock of his hair for a moment. "And if I do?" she asked him hesitantly

"I will be utterly overjoyed," John promised truthfully.

Margaret smiled, her eyes warm. "Good. Because I do want children. At least four."

"Four! I was thinking one."

"They'd be terribly lonely! No, our child must have siblings. And they should be close in age, so they can play together."

"Two, then," he compromised. Margaret grinned and lunged towards him, grabbing his wrists so that she had him pinned to the bed.

"Four."

"Two!" he insisted, trying to kiss her smiling mouth. She lent away from him, laughing.

"Three. Final offer. Otherwise I'll not kiss you again."

"Argh, fine, you win," he groaned. "Three it is. I'll not survive if I never get to kiss you again."

Margaret grinned victoriously. She leaned down to kiss him, but stopped maddeningly short of his lips. Still trapping his wrists beneath her hands, she shifted carefully until she was straddling him. Her jubilant expression disappeared and she gave him a sensual look.

His heart immediately began to race. He knew that society believed that a wife was not to be so forward, that it was immoral. But whoever thought that up clearly did not have a wife like Margaret. She melted whenever he touched her; when he burrowed his fingers inside her in just the right way, it caused her come apart completely, moaning his name. She gave herself to him with such abandon that he was left panting with the pleasure of it. He loved watching all the expressions dance across her face as they explored each other.

He'd mapped her body tirelessly, with his hands, with his tongue. Given how much she enjoyed his attentions, she'd done the same to him, timidly in the beginning, but then with great delight as her confidence grew.

Margaret locked eyes with him and slowly began to rock her body against his, swirling her hips tantalizingly. He groaned again, instantly aroused. He tried to break away from her grip but she smirked and leant more of her weight on her arms, trapping him further.

"Dear god, please let me touch you," he begged.

"Not yet," she told him breathlessly. "I want to see how long it takes for you to shatter completely. I'm going to let you go now; don't move or I'll stop what I'm doing."

Margaret grazed her fingernails lightly against the skin on his forearms, trailing downwards over his chest and to his stomach, then back up again. She pressed her hips deeper against his, causing him to toss his head back and moan loudly, his hands shaking with the effort of not touching her.

She kissed his chest lightly; then, darting a quick look at him, closed her mouth around his nipple. John flung his hands out and gripped the bed sheets in torment.

"Margaret! Please!" he panted.

She ignored him and continued her attentions, dragging the flat of her tongue against his nipple, occasionally scraping her teeth against him; first one side, then the other. She ran her tongue against his lips lightly, but pulled back and gave him a look of warning when he tried to reciprocate.

She reached between their bodies and took him in her hand, shifting her body back slightly to give her better access. John's breath exploded out of his chest as her hand started to move against him. Her touch was tentative at first – she'd not done this before – but encouraged on by his moans, she was soon pushing him higher and higher. He was almost silenced with lust, only able to mouth the words he desperately wanted to tell her.

He could feel his pleasure peaking, and wrenched his eyes open. "Margaret," he gasped. "… I'm going – I'm going to –"

She gripped him tighter, increasing the pressure, until he came apart; stars dancing before his eyes, her name on his lips. Margaret captured his mouth in a tender kiss, but he was not able to respond adequately, half because he was trying to catch his breath and half because he was unsure if he should still be following her earlier instructions.

"You are beautiful, John," she whispered against his skin. "Beautiful to watch in this way."

Still panting with exertion and lust, he asked roguishly, "Can I touch you now?"

When Margaret gave an impish nod, John dragged her roughly down to him, enclosing her in his arms. He rolled them until she was tucked beneath his body then kissed her frantically.

"Your turn," he said wickedly. Margaret's breathless laugh became a whimper of pleasure as he slid his fingers inside her. He directed her not to put her hands on him either, and levered himself off her body until only his fingers were touching her; occasionally brushing his tongue against her breasts or her neck, causing her to shudder hard.

She arched her back off the bed in pleasure, John stroking her until she was moaning in earnest; begging for more contact, driving him crazy with her frantic pleas for more of him. She rolled her hips continuously against his fingers. Her hand kept drifting down to try and grasp his wrist to pull him deeper inside. His commands to stop that seemed to only push her higher.

"You're not supposed to touch me, darling," he purred in her ear. She moaned and her eyes flew wide. "That was your rule… I cannot touch any more than I already am. No matter how much I want to… how much I want to bury myself inside you…"

She was so keyed up already from her attention to him that it did not take long for her to come apart, crying out joyfully. He gentled his movements to prolong her pleasure, until they both collapsed back against the mattress, completely exhausted.

"Well, that's got to be the best way to end an argument," he huffed, languidly running his hand against Margaret's damp skin.

"Were we arguing? I thought we were having a discussion."

"No discussion ends like that."

"Ah, I see," said Margaret drolly, lifting her hair off her hot neck. "So is that how we tell, is it? If it ends in lovemaking, it's an argument, if it doesn't, it's a discussion?"

"Perhaps I ought to retract that statement. I don't want to only be able to make love to you when we argue, since those instances are going to be few and far between. It was a discussion then."

Margaret smirked at him. "So lovemaking after every discussion? Even if we're talking in our bedroom… or the drawing room… or your library…"

"Oh god," John groaned. "I didn't think it was possible to be aroused again so soon." He turned onto his side to face her. "How likely are we to get away with doing that?"

Margaret giggled, her hand drifting down his body again. "The drawing room, definitely not. But your library… It's possible… the door locked, the candles lit… me sitting on your desk, my legs wrapped around your waist–"

John cut her off with a forceful kiss, pulling her on top of him once more.

.

.

.

Their honeymoon passed blissfully slowly. They spent the days leisurely exploring their surroundings; hiking on the moor, taking day trips to Roseberry Topping Hill and the gothic Whitby Abbey. They went to Helmsley Castle, where John asked her what she knew about the crumbling fortress and she excitedly told him the thrilling tale of the besiege of the castle during the Civil War; how Crosland fought valiantly for the King for months before he was defeated and forced to surrender.

They sat down on the grass a bit away from the castle so that Margaret could sketch it. John stretched out beside her and lay his head in her lap. He had brought a book with him, but was soon lulled into a doze by the hot sun. Every so often, Margaret would pause in her task to run her fingers through his hair or over his face. Every time her fingers grazed over his lips, he'd kiss them lightly.

She'd never been this happy in her life. Sometimes she would wake with a start in the middle of the night and have to reach quickly for John beside her, to make sure it was still real and he was still here with her. The happiness was painfully intense. Sometimes she felt as though she was so elated she was going to float off the earth; she had to grab him to anchor herself.

They spent their nights completely engrossed in each other, not always lovemaking; sometimes they simply fell asleep together, sometimes playing more games with the whiskey. John suggested a game of true or false, where one person said a statement and other other had to say if it was true or not, taking a sip if they were wrong. They used the game to test each other's knowledge on novels and history, the questions becoming wilder the longer they played.

Margaret foolishly suggested they play a game where one person had to guess what the other was drawing, taking longer nips of the drink the longer it took to guess. John was an abysmal artist and Margaret ended up hysterically drunk as a result. John exploited his talents again by suggesting that they try and say the most ridiculous things they could think of with a straight face, the first one to laugh having to take a drink. Margaret failed spectacularly at this, given how impassive he could make his expression when he wanted. By the end of the game, she was simply laughing helplessly at his frown before he even spoke.

They tried to write limericks to each other, mime book titles for the other to guess. They almost had an entire conversation without using words that began with 'a'. They had a water fight in the bathtub, and a food fight, pelting each other with bits of bread; Margaret leaping across the bed to escape his accurate pitches. They read books together; and the newspaper, talking – and arguing – about the articles. The had to divide the paper, each preferring different sections. John scorned the Court Circular, which was Margaret's favorite, Margaret likewise not able to interest herself in the economic jargon that John could decipher as quickly as she could French.

They confessed secrets to each other, their biggest fears and weaknesses, their hopes for the future. During their confessions, John admitted that he was still unsure whether he was pleasing her every time, as he couldn't always tell when she reached the apex of her desire. Margaret had given him an incredulous look, shifting until her body was in line with his. She lent towards him and punctured her words with deep kisses; telling him that he did please her, extremely so. That she adored everything about him, his strength, his protectiveness. The calluses on his hands that showed he was a hard worker; when they scraped on her skin, a shiver ran through her entire body. But that it was his deep husky voice that captured her most of all. When she had told him that, his smiled that wonderful smile of his. Now he would always take care to croon endearments and directions in her ear, in between running his tongue over her skin.

Margaret soon realized that John was always touching her in some way, as if to make up for the months and years without the contact. He always rested his hand on her back or played with her hair. Even in public, he would hold her hand or drape an arm across her shoulders. It became so habitual that Margaret began to feel bereft without it.

They had also spent a long night describing in detail their fantasies about one another; ones they had before their marriage and the ones since they became lovers.

Margaret's suggestion had them pressed up against the wall, John holding her up while he drove himself into her. That had been amazing, mostly just because she adored that he was able to hold her in that way. John had whispered a desire to take her from behind. Margaret had loved the feelings the new position had provoked, but disliked not being able to watch his expression as he came apart. John responded by maneuvering the dressing table mirror into their view so that they could watch each other, both of them gasping at the erotic nature of it.

They acted more like illicit lovers than husband and wife. Margaret wondered if it would always be so, or if they would settle once they returned to Milton and reality.

.

After two weeks in the Yorkshire moorlands, they relocated to a large seaside town on the edge of the county. The town was beautiful, perfumed with the scent of salt and sea. Boats dotted the blue ocean like flecks of paint. The buildings were delightfully colourful, which added to the charm of the place.

Ordinarily, the town would be overflowing with people in the summer, but the Great Exhibition had drawn almost everyone to London instead.

Margaret started her course on their second day there. A small part of her pined at the realization that there would be no child born of their amazing honeymoon; but a larger part of her wanted John's plan – to enjoy their married life with just the two of them for now, if it could be arranged.

She was also a bit nervy about how it would affect their sexual relationship; she'd not denied John yet, and hadn't wanted to. But now, it must be done. Her worries proved to be for naught however, as John had understood instantly when she asked him to stop, then proceeded to hover over her anxiously, fetching her tea and hot towels. He clearly hadn't believed her when she told him that it was largely unpainful; only on the third day, after he could see she had been in no discomfort, did he calm down. Margaret thought it was adorable and wondered if he would lose his head completely when she was finally with child.

They were able to do more urban things here; shopping, visiting a museum and an art gallery. They discarded their shoes waded up to their calves in the ocean – still freezing even in June. Neither of them had seen the sea before and spent hours on the beach, running from the waves – and each other – getting their feet caked in sand. They also both got a headache from squinting into the horizon, watching the sunset. They tried all kinds of seafood as well; cod, dried herrings, eel and oysters; some with relish, others a disaster, never to be repeated.

A market took place on Wednesday. The two of them woke early so that they could spend the day there.

"It's a pity this fair doesn't happen on such a scale as it did in the Middle Ages," mused Margaret, as they walked through the market square, eying the stalls. "Six weeks of nothing but excitement, with traders coming from all over to show off the wares; even from the Baltic and the Byzantine Empire." Remembering the funny tune she had heard about the town's famous medieval fair, Margaret began to sing under her breath. "' _For thou must shape a sark to me, without any cut or hem', quote he_ …"

They bought a few sweet things from the stalls; sugarplums and pralines. Margaret, eyes dancing with merriment, cajoled John into trying liquorice for the first time, and he detested it. He spent hours afterwards trying to kiss her in punishment for making him eat the bitter treat whose taste lingered for ages.

John had become almost unrecognizable over the course of the past few weeks. He was far more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. He smiled constantly, and dressed more lazily than he had before, appearing only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat – even disregarding his cravat. He'd neglected to shave as well; stubble appeared, making him look even more handsome. Margaret disliked the current fashion of full beards but did like the unkempt look on him.

That night in bed, she smoothed her fingers across his jaw and asked him impishly, "Are you going to keep this?"

"Hmm, probably not. I haven't been bothered to shave these past few weeks; I've had much better ways to spend my time. Why, do you like it?"

"On you, I do. It makes you look far less severe," she smiled.

"It's definitely got to go, then. Can't have my employee's thinking I've become merciful while I've been away."

"Ah, yes, we can't have that. Your reputation would be ruined."

"Completely," he chuckled.

"We ought to get into an argument before we get back as well," teased Margaret. "Can't have you smiling either."

John scoffed. "What would even argue about? The way I feel right now, there's nothing you could say that would irritate me."

"I bet there is. I could start one right now, if I told you that you snore!"

"I do not!" he protested.

"Yes, you do," she giggled. "Not every night, but when you're particularly exhausted. It sounds like a horse snorting. It's a wonder I've been able to sleep at all!"

"Why, you little–!"

He pounced on her, tickling her madly until she was crying with laughter. She squirmed out of his grip and sprang out his reach, squealing when he leapt across the room towards her. He picked her up bodily, laughing at her half-hearted attempts to struggle free. John pressed her to the wall, using his weight to pin her there, his leg sliding in between hers.

"Kiss me," he ordered, grinning. "To apologize for that heartless remark."

She did so, their laughter dissolving as the kiss became more heated. He moved his lips to her neck, sucking gently at her skin until little marks bloomed there. She ground herself against his body until they were both panting wildly. John slid her hand down between her legs, raising his eyebrow, waiting for her to confirm his thought. She nodded breathlessly and the two of them sank into one another.

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*Author's note: The Court Circular was an official promulgated statement printed in newspapers about the Royal Family, beginning in 1803. Margaret, a firm enthusiast of Queen Victoria, would have loved it.


	31. Chapter 29

*A/N: Wonderful reviews again! Thank you!

To answer some of the comments; yes, Fred does have bipolar disorder, in particular he has bipolar 1 disorder with rapid cycling. In 1851, psychiatrist Falret described this as _Folie Circulaire_. He's around the right age for an episode to first appear, although he showed symptoms earlier as well.

I'm glad I did the wedding night well, I wanted it to be beautiful, but not instantly perfect, as they need to explore each other more to develop their intimate relationship further. Hopefully they will in this chapter.

Thank you to the reviewer who said my writing is detailed without being wordy. That is something I struggle with!

The London family is mentioned again, and the issues will crop up again over the course of the marriage to test them.

Please tell me more of what you think!

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Chapter 29

"Like a fairy, trip upon the green, or like a nymph, with long dishevll'd hair, dance on the sands"

John was awakened late the next morning by the sound of rain hammering on the windows. Shivering slightly in the cold room, he swept his hand across the bed in search of Margaret. All he encountered was the warm imprint her body had left in the sheets. He frowned and sat up, but his worries were quickly dispelled. Margaret was wrapped in her shawl, her feet tucked up under her, sitting on the window seat watching the torrential downpour outside.

He scrutinized her for a few moments, marveling at the sight of her. Margaret's thin nightgown and shawl did nothing to hide her figure. Her body was flawless; she fit next to his body perfectly, as if they had been made for each other alone. Her long hair was beautifully untidy after their time together last night; going six days without sex had proved to be an aphrodisiac for both of them, so much so that they fell on each other fervently when they were finally able to. John stretched, his muscles wonderfully sore from their activities.

These last weeks had been the happiest of his life. He kept thinking that his cup of happiness could not take one more drop, but then Margaret would do something that caused it to overfill. Simply put, she made everything _fun_. It didn't matter what ordinary thing they were doing; whether they were sitting at breakfast reading the paper or having a bath, she always had something up her sleeve, some new way to make him laugh.

He carefully eased himself out of bed and crept towards her; the pound of rain covering his tread. She gave a yelp of fright when he wrapped his arms around her.

"John! You scared me half to death!"

He chuckled, not even remotely sorry. He sat down on the sill next to her and they watched the rain together.

"What a cruel irony; coming to a resort town, only to have it rain buckets," grumbled Margaret. "It's freezing too, which should never happen at a beach."

"I think rain is actually the trademark of English beaches," replied John amusingly. "Only the ones on the Continent are warm all year round."

Margaret snorted and half rolled her eyes. "My mistake." She leaned closer to the glass, frowning, then said, "I can't believe people have actually ventured outside!"

John too could see the dark shapes of people hurrying though the streets; far away dots indicated that there were even some who were walking along the beach. "How odd. Do you think they know something we don't know?"

Margaret twisted in his embrace and said, "Only one way to find out!"

They detangled themselves from each other and went about getting dressed. John dug to the bottom of his trunk for his warmer coat. He shook it out, dislodging something that had been wrapped within it. He bent to pick it up, brow furrowed, certain that he had not seen it before. It was a book-sized object wrapped in dull brown paper. It was only a few centimetres thick and the contents were light; it felt like a stack of paper.

"Is this yours?" John asked Margaret in confusion. She paused her own rummage to look over the packet.

"No. Where did you find it?"

"It was wrapped in my coat." He turned the stack over and saw that there was writing on the other side of it. "'For your enjoyment'?" he read, mystified. He turned it towards Margaret so she could see.

"That's Fred's handwriting," she said in recognition. "He must have put it in your case when he took them to the station."

"Ah… but what could it be? And why would it be enjoyable?"

Margaret's face reddened suddenly and she lifted her hands to cover her mouth. "Oh god, don't open it. I think I can guess what it is."

"What?" asked John, confused by her mortification.

"… Images. Or a book, maybe. Whatever it is, I bet it's from Holywell Street."

It took John a second to remember why that name was familiar to him. When he did, he uttered an expletive. He was offended; more on Margaret's behalf than for himself. How could Fred think that Margaret would not find out about it, if indeed Fred had intended for it to be a secret from her?

"Why the hell would me give me this?"

"Fred's idea of a wedding gift, no doubt. He's told me before that he buys things like this for his other friends when they've gotten married. He's not trying to be offensive. He's most likely gotten you things… of a tamer sort."

John didn't know whether to laugh or not. "I can't believe you've seen pictures like this and I haven't." Although, given Margaret's curiosity, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised.

"I have not! I only know _of_ them. And anyway, who was it that read that erotic book?" she retorted.

They stared at each other for a moment, then they both grinned self-consciously.

"Do you suppose we should open it? I can always throttle him later if it's utterly distasteful," John asked her, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

Margaret cleared her throat nervously. "We might as well. And if it's awful, you have my full permission to throttle him."

The two of them abandoned their plans to venture outside and climbed back onto the bed, the packet laying innocently between them. John _was_ curious, but he was also nervous. He'd never seen erotic images before. He heard them spoken about, of course, but he'd never had an interest in purchasing any himself. He knew that the bookstores in Holywell Street in London did a roaring trade; every few years the papers would be full of a reports that the police had raided the place, only for sellers to pop up again almost instantly. He thought it a testimony to how conflicted society was about sex; they were told having a sexual appetite was immoral but also told that large families were very much desired. The two opposing sides did not mesh, which is why these types of things were so successful. People were curious, but their shame drove them to act out oddly about the natural phenomenon.

Margaret had turned the packet over so that the fastenings were facing upwards. She gave him an uneasy look. "Do you suppose they could be daguerreotypes? I don't think I could look… not if they were actual people. That seems more invasive, not informative."

"Aye, I agree. If they are, we'll throw them away."

At Margaret's nod, he tore open the parcel; its contents spilled across the sheets.

There was a book, a thin one with an illustration of a naked woman on the cover. The rest were pencil drawings, thankfully. They both relaxed when they saw that. They were a compilation by the same artist, the type that would've been sold together in a set. John reached for the closest one. He frowned, trying to work out what was happening in the image; the couple's limbs were not held where he thought they would be.

Margaret also gave the drawing an odd look. "I don't know if that's erotic. It looks more uncomfortable than anything. Look how crumpled up they are!"

Her perplexed observation defused the tension and they both laughed heartily. John kissed her, not a leading kiss, merely to express how much he loved her. How, even faced with something like this, she could still be so self-possessed.

The next image was not particularly informative; their hands were against each other in a way that John and Margaret had already engaged in many times. The only difference was that the couple were lying with their head by the other's feet.

"Do you think the two of them are married? The background looks like they're in a household bedroom."

John laughed again at that non-sequitur. "I don't think you're supposed to think things like _that_ when you look at these."

"But surely the artist had an idea of it when he drew it?" Her eyes widened suddenly. "Oh lord, what if it's the artist and his wife in the pictures!"

"You're putting way too much thought into this."

The next one was easier to understand than the first image, but was far more shocking. The woman was splayed out on the mattress, her head tipped back in obvious pleasure. The focus of the image was the man, who was kneeling on the floor, his mouth between her legs.

Margaret went bright red. John also felt a little heated but likely for a different reason. When they had whispered their desires to each other that night that led to the wonderful new positions, John had not told Margaret that these acts were also one of his desires. He had no clue where he had gotten the idea that it was possible; perhaps he had heard a classmate mention it and then forgotten about it. He hadn't revealed it because he knew it was alarming in a way that they hadn't talked about before. And because he knew that Margaret would have never thought of these things before, and he didn't want to offend her.

"Is that–" whispered Margaret. "What is he even…" she stopped again, unable to find words to describe it.

"… I think it's supposed to be similar to kissing… As we do with our tongues," said John carefully, wanting to see her reaction.

Margaret's eyes widened further. "I… enjoy it when you use your hands that way, but…"

She picked up the final drawing to change the subject but only made it worse. The image was similar, except with the woman between the man's legs. John looked incredulously at the man's expression; his arm was resting on his forehead, fingers linked together, and he looked utterly bored by the contact.

"Oh, my god…" Margaret hastily put down the picture, looking everywhere but at John. He quickly gathered up everything and put the stack on the floor.

"Don't worry, they don't mean anything," he said soothingly, trying to pull her into a comforting embrace. Margaret was too agitated, however, and stood up to pace.

"Please don't be offended, they don't mean anything," he repeated anxiously. "It won't change how we are together, my love."

"I'm not offended. I'm… I'm…"

John suddenly realized why she was acting so unsettled. She wasn't insulted, she was _aroused_ , and she was confused and abashed by her reaction.

"Have you imagined things like this before?" he asked. He wanted to explore these tempting new discoveries further but was troubled by Margaret's distress. She had not balked at anything they'd done so far; only been understandably nervous with the unfamiliar acts. He didn't want to pushed her into anything uncomfortable.

"No, I didn't think such things were possible… But these are worse than anything we've done. They're for a – a _maîtresse_ , not a wife!"

"That's not true; you said yourself it looked as though the couple was married. It's not lewd, not if we both want to, and if we enjoy it."

"Do you want it?" she asked, startled. She stopped pacing and stared at him.

He hesitated, then decided to be truthful. "I… have thought of it before. I don't know where I got the idea, but it's… pleasing to me. But, saying that, I won't ever do something that offends you. And my opinion won't effect how we are now. I am perfectly content with what we have. I don't feel lacking, I promise."

Margaret huffed out a breath and relaxed slightly. "I'm so confused. I think they please me too, but… those acts are only for pleasure, and that goes against the morals we're supposed to have. And I know when we use our hands that it's just for pleasure too, but that seems less wicked, somehow."

John reached out and took Margaret's hand, pulling her towards him. "No one gets to dictate how we are together, especially not our intimate relationship. It's only between us, as it should be," he told her firmly.

"I – yes. I suppose that's true."

"Come, let's go out and put this aside for now; it looks like the rain has let up a bit," John said, kissing her quickly. He wanted to put some distance between her and the provocative pictures, so as to give her space to think.

They walked in the spattering of rain, heading in the direction of the drab beach. They spoke very little, each lost in their own thoughts. John's blood was sizzling with anticipation. Margaret had said she thought the acts would please her. But she was nervous as well, and he didn't want to do anything intimate while she was unsure of herself.

They returned to the inn in the late afternoon, Margaret still unusually quiet. John had known her long enough to know that she was not irritated with him about the desire he had revealed. Margaret was refreshingly honest about all things and always said what she thought. If she was unhappy with him, there would be no pointed silence; she would verbally eviscerate him so that there would be no mistaking that she was angry at him.

He decided she was merely thinking things through, as he hoped she would. His inkling proved correct when, after a few hours of lying next to each other in the darkness, Margaret sat up to light a candle and retrieve the book and images from beside the bed. She studied the most intimate parts of the drawings, her cheeks heating again, but also had a more inquisitive gaze than before. John drew himself up onto his elbow to watch her quietly, letting her think.

"Her skin is bare," said Margaret finally, turning the drawing to show him.

That was nowhere near what he thought she would say. John scrutinized the drawing as well and saw that Margaret was right.

"And so is this one." She indicated to the cover of the novella, also depicting a bare mound on the woman. "I've seen paintings of Roman goddesses where the artist has done this as well," she continued, her brow furrowed. "I thought it was to show that they were ethereal, but perhaps it's meant to be physically attractive, as these women are supposed to be."

John was unsure what to make of her odd preoccupation. Did she think she was unappealing to him?

"Is that what's beautiful to men?" she asked, her tone curious.

"I don't know; maybe. But I like the way you look."

Margaret looked back at the image of the rapturous woman, her forefinger tracing over the woman's joyful expression, her engagement ring glittering in the candlelight. "If one is to use their tongue, as you say… it would be better to have one's body so."

"Perhaps. We would have to… try it first, to see if it's so," he told her. He was uncertain how he felt about these women's physiques. Margaret was beautiful to him, but maybe she was also right that it was needed if they were going to engage in these things.

"I wish there was more direction," said Margaret softly, bringing the image closer to her. "I can't tell what movements he's making…"

She looked to the book suddenly; both of them getting the same idea. They had largely ignored the the book in favour of the more astonishing images, but perhaps it would contain descriptions of the act, so that they might be less confused. John picked it up and flipped through the pages briefly.

"Do you suppose reading about sex has the same effect as viewing it?" Margret asked.

John laughed a little. "I know so. It had done the last time I read something like this."

They shifted so that they could both read the book by candlelight. John tried to read it though a clinical lens, as they were using it as a learning aid. It was easy enough; the dialogue was strange and punctuated oddly. By mutual agreement, they skipped over the familiar parts, their eyes skimming for what they really wanted to know. John found the passage first. He indicated to Margaret and they both read through it slowly. It seemed a little sensationalized, but the gist of it was there. John felt his excitement growing in spite of himself. He could _see_ it in his mind with vivid clarity; him crying out in pleasure, his hands clutching at her hair… He closed the book quickly, tossing it aside.

Margaret looked at him in wonder, her breath rushing out. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," he admitted, swallowing thickly. "But only if you do."

"… I think I do. But –," she said quickly, using her fingers to halt his ardent kiss "– not all of it at once. Not yet. Tonight, I just want a small part of it… just the beginning. And then more later, if we want to continue it."

He nodded numbly, his yearning for her increasing tenfold. He kissed her, moving to rise up on his knees and urging her to do the same. An idea came to him, a way to introduce the new sensations slowly. He ghosted his fingers down her arm to the hem of her nightgown, drawing it up her body leisurely. John repeated his light finger movements against her belly, up to her breasts and back down to her core. Margaret's skin broke out in goose-bumps and she moaned quietly.

Tantalizingly slowly, he slid his fingers into her body, growling when he felt how damp she was already. She'd been thinking of pleasure too when she read the book. That thought excited him further. He didn't stimulate her, only kept his fingers there long enough to gather moisture on them. He pulled his hand away, then put his forefinger in his mouth; putting a taste to her heady scent at last.

She made a strangled noise at the sight, her mouth falling open. He drew his finger out of his mouth, then lifted his hand towards her, tracing his mid finger against her lower lip. Her eyes went wide and she darted out her tongue to taste it. He drew in a shuddering breath.

"Do it again," she breathed.

Eyes holding hers, he did as she asked; gathering more of her and trailing it across her lips. She pulled his fingers into her mouth, lapping her tongue against them. The sight of it was more erotic than he ever thought possible; he had to clench his jaw in an effort not to lose himself completely. He kissed her deeply, tasting her again, frantically thrumming his fingers inside her.

She pushed at his hips until he backed off the bed and stood up. He gripped the bedpost tightly as she worked her hand along the length of him, accelerating her movements when he did so to her. They came apart quickly, almost simultaneously. They held for a moment, panting heavily, neither removing their hands. Suddenly, she bent down and swiped her tongue against him – the action too quick to really elicit any pleasurable response; unlikely anyway, given how shattered he was.

Margaret kissed him deeply, sliding her tongue into his mouth so he could taste as well. It was far different to her, harder and bitterer. She pulled away, eyes still shut tight, and asked, "Was that as you imagined it?"

"It was so much better," he said hoarsely. "My fingers against your lips… in your mouth…" He gripped her hip tightly.

"… I liked that part too," she whispered, opening her eyes and smiling shyly at him.

She pulled the bed sheet lose from the woolen blankets and used it to quickly clean them both.

"The maids are going to hate us," she mused blithely.

John burst out laughing.

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The next day was charged with energy, both of them aware of each other in a completely new way, discovering yet another facet to their sexual relationship that they hadn't thought of before. Well, John had thought of it. That knowledge made Margaret tense with lust. That he had imagined that, that intensely intimate act…

They two of them were clumsy during breakfast the next day; their dropped utensils and flushed faces causing the other diners to look strangely at them. They went to the beach again, the day overcast but not raining. Margaret found some large scallop shells along the sand in varying pleasing shades of pink. She collected them happily to bring back with her.

"The Birth of Venus," said John quietly, almost to himself.

"The painting?"

"Aye, that's what the cover of that book looks like."

Margaret had thought that too, and now on the beach, collecting seashells, it brought it back. She'd fixated on that part of the drawings; mostly because it had calmed her, that the woman in the drawings looked so similar to classical paintings that hung in museums all over Europe. It made the whole thing seem less sordid, instead depicting it as something beautiful and heavenly.

She had never thought of things like this in her life. She hadn't known it was possible, and had never heard it spoken of. She knew that it would be considered disgraceful to engage in such things. But Margaret also did a lot of things people disapproved of – speaking her mind, her independence, even working with John in the mill. She had decided long ago that people's disapproval of these things wouldn't stop her; she was able to think for herself and decide what it was she wanted. That included her sexual nature.

Every moment of their intimate relationship had been wonderful so far, adding another aspect wouldn't diminish it. In fact, if they wanted to wait a little before having children, they would have to come up with different ways to please each other.

Last night had certainly been intense, even though they hadn't really done anything new. It had been more the thoughts behind it, watching each other's reaction. John's response to the taste of her; when she lapped at his fingers… that had been almost too much. She wanted to see that look on his face again, a thousand times over.

Margaret had been vibrating with too much energy to do anything more than pick at her food during dinner. They retired to bed early, the rain having picked up again, darkening the sky. The fire was smoldering and John put another log onto it to starve off the chillness that had seeped into the room. He stooped down to the rug on the floor to shift the coals around with the poker. Margaret knelt down next to him and leant her body against his.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked her, shifting to pull her into his lap. "You've been very quiet today."

"So have you."

He smirked. "I'm usually quiet. It's you who is the chatterbox."

"I've been thinking."

"Good thoughts?"

Margaret twisted in his embrace to look at him. He was smiling gently, his eyes warm. He was perfect. He'd been so perfect last night that she wanted to continue it, copy what the book had said, play out this new fantasy that he'd told her he had. She lent in to kiss him, gliding her tongue against his lips, sucking his tongue into her mouth when he reciprocated. He groaned at the feeling, his hands moving to her hips to pull her deeper into his body.

She broke the kiss. "Very good thoughts," she whispered. "I've been imagining… continuing with what we started last night."

He inhaled sharply. "Aye… As have I."

"I've decided I want to try it. I loved watching your expression."

He groaned and pulled her to kiss him again, digging his fingers into her hips, wrapping her legs more firmly around his waist.

Margaret ground herself against him until she felt him harden beneath her, kissing him ceaselessly while she did so. "What do you think it'll feel like?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know," he said hoarsely. "Similar, I expect. Hot… wet. More movement, perhaps."

His words sent jots of desire through her core, and she pulled at the buttons on his shirt, impatient to begin. John reached around her and began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress as well. They tore at each other's clothes, Margaret wishing once again that corsets were easier to remove; although she did hinder the process by taking John in hand, scattering his concentration. Their staying in each others arms also made the process difficult, but neither wanted to move and instead the friction of their inhibited movements heightened their desire.

Finally, they were both naked, their garments flung in all directions. Margaret lay back against the soft rug, her head pillowed on her discarded gown. John moved to cover her body with his. He swept his tongue into her mouth, then used the same movements down her body. He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly. She squirmed beneath him and he chuckled at her fervor. John went slowly, to tease them, but also to relieve their nervousness.

Margaret wasn't sure why she was so nervous. She hadn't been nearly this anxious during their very first time together. Perhaps that was why; she had expectations now. The erotic image showed that this was clearly a pleasurable act.

He was further down now, ghosting his tongue over her belly, biting softly at her skin. John smoothed his palms over her thighs, following the movement with more scrapes of his teeth. Margaret moaned loudly, the anticipation unbearable. Finally, he wrapped his hands tightly around her thighs and licked her firmly.

Margaret gasped, jerking up her body up the floor slightly. He watched her expression briefly, gauging her response, then did it again. John made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat. He repeated the movement again, this time without stopping; he slid his tongue inside her, flicking it back and forth. She cried out at the pleasure of it.

It seemed as though every part of her body was wet; her brow with sweat, her skin with saliva and arousal. John was rocking himself against the press of clothes beneath him, he too aroused by this. Margaret tangled her fingers though his hair, rolling her hips in the same way she did when he thrummed his fingers inside her. He made similar movements with his tongue, getting faster, swirling his tongue repeatedly. He loosened his grip on her thigh to glide his fingers into her as well. Margaret was almost insensible with lust, moaning the syllables of his name over and over again. They were soon both rocking hard against each other, John increasing the pressure of his mouth, and his own body against the floor.

Margaret was so tense with desire she was shaking violently; she thought she'd never fall apart, until John scraped his teeth against the most sensitive part of her, stroking her frantically. She cried out huskily.

John surged up her body to kiss her deeply. He continued to caress her until she came down from her peak. He drew his damp fingers teasingly up her body and to her mouth. Still trying to pant herself back together again, Margaret swirled her tongue against his fingers.

"Did it feel the same as when I'm inside you?" John asked, his voice deep with desire. He trailed his hand from her mouth to her neck.

"Not quite. It was warmer… just as intense, but in a different way," she replied, pushing him to lay on his back as she spoke. She straddled him, curling her body over his muscular form. She kissed him for a few moments, then whispered, "You'll see what I mean. How warm it is… how much wetter…"

John sucked in breath and groaned. Margaret mimicked his attentions to her, kissing and biting at his skin as she worked her way down his body. When she nipped at his hip, he jumped.

"Ticklish?" she asked mischievously.

He gave her a mock glare. She muffled a giggle and continued down between his legs. She began with the familiar, using her hand against him, adding swipes of her tongue. John groaned and reached down and clutched at her hair. She spread her tongue up and down the length of him, wanting him to experience the same wetness she had. His hold on her hair tightened; she could hear him panting loudly.

She gripped the base of him and eased her mouth over the tip, sucking gently at him. John swore forcefully, arching his back. She thought she'd hurt him, but when she pulled away to look at him in concern, his eyes were crazed with lust.

"Don't stop," he gasped, "It feels so good…"

Margaret resumed her actions, increasing the pressure as she grew more confident. John cursed again, fisting his other hand into her hair as well, almost inhibiting her movements. Margaret grinned inwardly, amazed that she could cause such forceful reactions from him. She raised her gaze to him and saw that his eyes were shut tight; he was whimpering her name feverishly.

Sensing her gaze, he opened his eyes to look at her. "Oh, _Christ_!"

John threw his head back in ecstasy, coming apart intensely, filling her mouth. Margaret slowly worked her way back up his body, kissing him. He was utterly exhausted, his hands now resting loosely in her hair. He guided her to lay atop him and kissed her lethargically, groaning again when he tasted himself in her mouth.

"I'd say that experiment was a success," she said against his lips.

"Aye. One we are going to repeat daily," he murmured.

Margaret laughed lightly. She felt rather sleepy, her exhaustion from their lovemaking crashing over her suddenly. She tried to slide off his body to rest against his side but he held her tight; wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing her closer to him.

"No, stay here. I want to feel as much of your skin as possible."

She made a noise of agreement and settled more comfortably against him. "Your reaction was much more striking than the man in the drawing. He looked rather bored," pondered Margaret.

"That's because he's clearly a fool," John murmured. "That was incredible… just as intense, as you said, but more so as well, somehow."

"Yes, exactly like that."

John pressed his forehead to hers and grinned widely. "You're a daring woman, my darling. I highly doubt any man is as happy with his wife as I am with mine."

Margaret laughed at his hyperbole. "I'm glad that I please you. That you enjoy my… forwardness."

"Of course! Your boldness has marked every important moment in my life. The day I first met you… the first time we argued… our first wonderful kiss."

"So this ranks up there with those moments, does it?" asked Margaret, laughing cheekily. When he flushed, she laughed harder.

"You know what I mean," he huffed, embarrassed. "I like how you do and say exactly as you want, without apology. It means we will always be truthful with each other, and talk about what we want. Which, yes, did lead to this blissful evening, but will also lead to many other wonderful moments as well."

"Yes," Margaret agreed, kissing his nose playfully at his uncomfortableness. "I'm pleased you think this way. Many would be scandalized to learn all we've done these past weeks."

"No one would find out. Our life is our own. So if I want to ravish you in this way again, it is no one's concern but ours."

Margaret smiled happily at the thought. "Do you suppose other couple's act as we do? Edith was the only one I asked about her married life."

"I have no idea. Perhaps we ought to take a survey," he teased.

She giggled again, enjoying this playfulness from him. "How shocking you are, John."

"Mhm." He yawned and stretched beneath her, smirking. "Come on, let's have a bath before we get too tired to move. We're both pleasantly sticky."

The water was not as warm as it could have been but they enjoyed it anyway, washing and splashing each other, laughing harder when he accidently cracked his hand against the tap. Despite how exhausted he claimed to be, John grabbed her ankles and pulled her close, kissing her soundly. His hand wandered down between her legs and they were soon stroking each other under the water. She stared into his beautiful eyes and whispered repeatedly how much she loved him.

.

A few days later, Margaret was still thinking about that night. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed it. They had both been deliciously uninhibited. John, normally so controlled, had come apart at the seams. She loved being able to do that to him. It was John's lusty expression than made her want to try it… and to try _all_ of it. Which was why she had decided to copy the smoothness of the woman's body, to see if it would feel different than before.

She already used almond oil and a pumice stone on her underarms for the past few years, having read in a ladies' magazine that it helped keep one cleaner. She didn't think that method would be effective anywhere else besides her arms and legs, so, asking John to wait outside, she went into a modiste and bought a depilatory cream with an elegant French label. When John asked her what she was being so secretive about, she blushed and told him it was a surprise for him later.

Soaking in the hot water of the bath, she used the stone method on her legs. It took a bit of effort but felt wonderfully smooth once she'd finished. She kept running her hands over her legs, loving the feel of it. It made her more confident about using the cream, even if only once.

When she finished, she stood completely naked and examined herself in the mirror. She unwound her hair from its braid and pulled it forwards to drape across her body as the women in the paintings did. She was pleased with the results and hoped John would be as well. Her pulse jumping erratically, she donned only her robe, leaving herself completely naked beneath.

She opened the bathroom door to find John in bed, watching her with mild concern. She'd been in the bath so long that she expected him to have fallen asleep. It seemed that her mysterious behaviour had caused him to be more concerned than intrigued, so she smiled reassuringly at him.

"I have something to show you," she told him softly, moving to stand closer to the bed. She began to remove her robe, going slowly; half to tease him, half because she hadn't quite deduced how he would react to her wanton behaviour. He was surprised by her strip, eyes sliding down her body as she pulled the tie loose and ran her fingers down her chest to separate the halves of silk. She shrugged out of the robe and let it glide to the floor while she blushed furiously.

His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. "God, Margaret, what have you done?" he whispered, swallowing thickly.

"Fashioned myself in Venus's image," she told him shyly, stretching her body luxuriously so he could see. "Do you like it?"

"Aye," he replied hoarsely. "You look _exactly_ like that painting… right down to your beautiful long hair. Your feet are nicer than hers though. I don't think Botticelli was particularly good at painting feet."

Margaret grinned at his nervous rambling. She knelt on the bed and John reached out to ripple his fingers through her hair. His eyes kept darting between her face and her bare skin. She could see the evidence of his desire swelling beneath the sheets. She slid her body closer to him. She took his hand and pressed it between her legs, both of them gasping when his palm scraped against her smooth skin.

"Oh, god," he whispered. He closed his eyes in passion and his head tipped back.

"That's not all," she murmured, leaning in to run her tongue against his ear. He shuddered and opened his eyes to stare at her disbelievingly. "Here, as well."

She guided his other hand to her legs and he ran his hand up from her ankle to thigh admiringly.

"Christ, Margaret. Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he gasped. "Every time I think I cannot want you more… every time I think that the intensity will dispel over time… oh god, you do something so beautifully unexpected."

He moved his hand from her legs to her hair, digging his fingers against her scalp until she leant forward to kiss him fervently. "Stay still," he ordered against her lips. Margaret did as he asked, waiting with bated breath.

Still kneeling, she spread her legs further apart at his urging, so that he could thrum his fingers inside her. Her sensitivity _was_ increased, and she stuttered out a moan. He was watching himself perform the movements, panting his own pleasure. He raised his eyes to hers and their gaze locked. Margaret's hand grasped his wrist, pulling him deeper into her body. He pressed his thumb against the bundle of nerves within her.

He worked her frantically, pushing her to climb her peak. Just when she thought she couldn't stand it anymore, Margaret came apart with a sigh. Growling triumphantly, John didn't give her time to recover; he pushed her down to the mattress and slid his tongue inside her.

Margaret gasped and bucked beneath him, her hands clutching at the sheets, breathless for a new reason. She had felt a second wave building before, sometimes, but they'd not explored that further yet. She wondered if another was possible without a recovery in between, unlike it had to be for John.

He lifted her hips up, pushing his tongue further into her body. She shuddered again, but he still didn't stop; perhaps, like her, wanting to see how far they could take this. He pressed his fingers against the underside of her knee, then moved to pushed his thumbs against the increased sensitivity of her mound until she was grinding herself against him. Margaret came again, gasping his name.

He removed his mouth and licked the top of her mound and she jumped. He bit her thigh, none too lightly. "Again?"

"It's too much, John!" she moaned. "I'm going to explode if you touch me again."

"Shall I stop?"

"No! Please, it feels wonderful… one after the other…"

He gave a savage grin and slid his fingers into her, sucking her back into his mouth. She came again almost instantly, shocking them both. He continued licking and sucking at her, rocking himself against the mattress. Margaret could feel her body pulsing wildly beneath his tongue, in time with her breathy cries. She cried out joyfully again, and John groaned in response, panting heavily, his warm breath ghosting over her thigh.

Margaret's body slumped tiredly against the bed, her eyes closing in exhaustion. She could barely even respond when he kissed her. "Just wait until I get my breath back, I'll pounce on you too, until you can't move either," she sighed.

"I've got not problem with that, my love, but we'll have to wait a little while," said John, also breathless.

Margaret peeled her eyes open and slid her hand down John's body with a slight frown. Surely he enjoyed himself too?

"You were glorious, Margaret," he assured her gently. "Just by watching you… your pleasure was enough to push me over the edge."

"That hardly seems fair on you." Margaret hadn't known that was a possibility either; John able to stimulate his body with just the pressure of the mattress beneath him.

John laughed and snuggled himself closer to her. "The last thing I need is pity. You, my beautiful _daring_ wife, are enough to satisfy me."

.

.

.

Their decision to wait before having children meant that they had to satisfy their desire in other creative ways. Hands, teeth and tongues were all experimented with fully. They changed positions often while they did so, to feel a new angle. John would kneel on the floor, fling one of her legs onto his shoulder and lap at her; while Margaret – writhing with pleasure – tried in vain to stay upright, using the bedpost as an anchor. When she would kneel over him with her legs on either side of his head, she'd reach back to take him in her hand; it become a race – who could make the other fall apart first.

Everything about their honeymoon had been glorious. They had learnt more about each other and more about their relationship. Their explorations of each other had been fun rather than awkward, and he doubted they would stop there. He was sure there would be plenty of other amazing things to discover about each other.

On their final night, John stood before the mirror, shaving for the first time in a month. He studied his features, wondering if it would be possible for others to read the joy he felt. Margaret had teased that he looked severe without a beard, but even he could see the change that had been wrought in him in just these weeks alone. He features seemed softer, his smile quicker to appear.

"It's a bittersweet thing, going home," Margaret sighed, watching the scenery stream past out the train window. "I'm excited to start our life together, but I also wish we could have stayed in our seclusion forever."

"Aye, back to real life. But there will be so many new things happening this summer that we'll enjoy being home."

"Yes, watching all our brilliant plans unfold. I can't wait." Margaret lay her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He thought she'd fallen asleep until she said softly; "Thank you, darling, for all of this. For marrying me, for sharing your life with me. And for this very marvelous honeymoon. Words cannot even express how much I love you."

Tears gathered unbidden in his eyes are her gentle words. He pressed a kiss to her brow. "Welcome home, darling."

.

.

.

*Author's note: I studied many books and websites for information on Victorian era sexuality for this chapter. Many sources were conflicted over how sexual Victorian marriages were, which makes sense as even today couples make their own decisions over what they want their sex life to be like. I also looked at many paintings and sculpture done in the Victorian era to try and see what Margaret would've been exposed to as the ideal of female beauty. Given the depilatories that were widely available, I gather that many other women also felt as Margaret did.

Some doctors in the Victorian era helpfully published informative books about contraception and fertility, none of which would've been 100% effective. They also included timetables of when a woman was 'temporarily sterile' during her cycle. Sterile isn't the right word, but women's fertility does go up and down over the month, as Margaret tells John; this method again not being wholly effective, but, as they want to wait to have children, that's all they've got to work with.


	32. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"Thy Husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee"

It was a slightly awkward feeling, moving into someone else's home. Routines were already set; staff were firmly in place. All the rooms were already decorated and full; all had a purpose.

John took Margaret through the entirety of the house the moment they returned, wanting her to be comfortable here. Having only ever been in the public rooms previously, Margaret was glad of the opportunity to explore her new home.

She learnt that the dining room was the more formal area, only for dinners and parties; the family ate the rest of their meals in the cheery breakfast room that had a view of the far off hills. Margaret resolved that she wouldn't enter Mother's parlor without permission, so that her mother-in-law would have her own space in the house; Margaret still far preferring the drawing room anyway. John's library was also a wonderful place, full of leather-bound books and a window seat one could secret themselves in to read undisturbed.

The house was not as cluttered with objects as some others she had visited. Mother and John had an aversion of wastefulness and purposeless things, and so only displayed items they truly liked. It was also due to the fact that the house had not been inherited, but rather built for them. Margaret knew that some people thought this unrefined and _nouveau riche_ , but Margaret preferred its modernity, particularly as it had all manner of conveniences including plumbing, drains and indoor privies

They went down to the kitchen and scullery so that Margaret could be introduced to the staff as the new mistress of the house. There was a grey-haired cook, two kitchen maids, a scullery maid and three housemaids. One of the housemaids was deemed an upper servant and had seniority over the others, as there was no housekeeper; Mother handling those duties herself. There was no footman or butler, only a hall boy, Hayden, who took on those responsibilities – attending to the newspapers and lamps, polishing the silver and filling the coal bins. He was given a livery as well, and showed guests inside on days when Mother was home to callers or during dinner parties. The only other male servants were the groom and stable boy who had rooms above the small stable, the rest having rooms in the attic or going home to their parents at night.

Caoimhe had become fast friends with the maids while Margaret was away, which Margaret was glad of. She wanted Caoimhe to be happy in her new home as well. Caoimhe took her new role very seriously and had spent the past month perfecting her hairdressing skills and supervising the moving of Margaret's things from Crampton.

The upper floor held all the family bedrooms, of which Margaret was to share John's. She stepped reverently into the room. "I feel like I ought to be whispering or tiptoeing," she said.

"Why?" asked John, confused.

"I don't know. It's an intimate thing, being in a man's room."

It was very much a masculine room, but not uncomfortably so. The furniture was oak, the heavy curtains a dark green. A curved wardrobe stood in one corner, and a chest of drawers was placed along the wall between the wardrobe and the bed. Another corner held a shaving stand.

"We've shared a room – not to mention a bed – every night for the past month," John reminded her in an amused voice.

"I know, I know. I don't know why I'm nervous."

John grinned at her. "Perhaps this will change your mind." He placed his hand on one of the panels of the wall and gave it a push, revealing a hidden door that led to another room. "While we were away, I arranged for the bedroom next to mine to be renovated into a dressing room for you, as a surprise."

"Oh, it's beautiful!"

The room was papered in a lovely robin egg blue, with gold and white patterns textured onto it. There was a velvet fainting couch, a huge armoire, Margaret's dressing table brought from Crampton, and a claw-footed bathtub that was reminiscent of the one in Yorkshire. A commode was hidden behind a Chinese screen; the divider edged in black and depicting a red dragon dancing across it. A round stain glass window with a design of vines and roses took up a huge space in the wall, filling the room with light and colour.

"Oh, thank you, John!" she cried, kissing him. "It's amazing! And I love the door, what a fanciful idea."

"That was Fanny's contribution, actually," John smiled, wrapping his arms around Margaret. "And Mother chose the paper. I got the idea after I saw your bedroom in Crampton and realized there was no space like that for you in this house."

"It's perfect," she sighed. "I think I'm going to just sleep in the bathtub instead."

John chuckled. "Not with me in that very large bed?"

"No. You and this room are competing for my attention, and you've just lost spectacularly."

"Hmm. Perhaps I'll just have to entice you back to my side…" John lent down and kissed her slowly, sucking gently on her bottom lip. He trailed his lips from her mouth to her neck, biting at her skin until she was shivering happily.

"How about now?" he murmured.

"Not yet," she replied, pulling him down for another kiss. John pulled the pins from her hair and let it cascade down, working his fingers against her scalp. She unwound his cravat, casting it behind him and kissed him ardently until they were both breathless.

"Now you've won."

"Good. Shall we continue?"

"With which activity?" Margaret quipped.

"With the tour," he snorted. "As much as I want to tumble into bed with you right now, I must get to the mill at some point today, to make sure they haven't destroyed the place while we've been gone."

"All of Williams reports said that everything was running smoothly," Margaret reminded him.

"Aye, but his definition and my definition are very different."

"Very well, my Master of Industry. Lead on."

John directed her to the smaller staircase that led to the third floor. There were a few bedrooms here too, one of them outfitted as a spare room for visitors, the rest empty.

"Preparation for all our future children?" Margaret smiled. "Looks like we can have five, if our guests don't mind sleeping on the sofa downstairs."

"Three was the agreed number."

"I don't remember agreeing to that," Margaret teased. "The number four was definitely brought up."

"By you. I agreed to three," he replied, narrowing his eyes in mock seriousness.

Margaret laughed and kissed him again. "We'll see."

.

Margaret and Mother danced uncomfortably around each other, neither quite sure what to make of the other. John was unable to serve as a buffer between them at present, having been called almost immediately to quarter sessions mere days after they had returned. It was clear that Mother was feeling out of sorts about having another headstrong woman in the house, and wary about how this would affect her own position in the household. Margaret had no desire to take over the running of the house, as Mother ran it perfectly already.

They had a tense conversation about this, a few days after Margaret and John returned from their honeymoon. She and Mother were having tea together in the drawing room, John due home shortly.

"I suppose you'll be wanting the keys to the storeroom and such," said Mother tersely. She flicked her eyes up to Margaret's shocked face and then back down to her cup, betraying how upset she was over this.

"I – I would prefer if you ran the house still. John and I are quite busy with the expansion and I won't have time to properly devote to it at present."

"And after?" asked Mother.

"I don't want to usurp you. I would prefer to help John in the mill, while you keep things together here. I've already spoken to John about this and he thinks it a good idea as well."

"Surely I ought to instruct you in the running of the house, for when I leave," insisted Mother.

"Where are you going?" asked Margaret, alarmed.

Mother frowned. "I assumed John had made other arrangements for me, once the two of you moved in to this house. You are starting a life together; you will need the space to do so."

"Oh, no! We wish you to stay! The house is more than large enough that we can all be comfortable. I don't want you to feel you have to leave, or as though you are in the way. This was your house before it was mine. I want you to be happy here," insisted Margaret.

"What about when you have children?" asked Mother skeptically.

"I will still want you here, so that you can be close to your grandchildren. We can always revisit it later if it becomes trying for either of us."

Margaret could see she had impressed her mother-in-law with this; her compassion pleasing the older woman who had been very much afraid that she would no longer be welcome, or needed, in her son's life.

Instead, Margaret mostly continued her routine from before; working in the hospital and foundling home. She spent the middle days of the week in the mill office or visiting the tenement and construction sites. Her landlady duties replaced the time she had previously spent doing chores in her old home. She went to church by herself, and met her parents and Sarah there for the service. Mama came to visit only twice in the weeks they'd been back, her sour demeanor not changed at all. Margaret knew this was a possibility, but it still cast a shadow over her happiness. Papa, on the other hand, came enthusiastically to the house on Tuesday and Thursday evenings for John's lessons and to spend time with Margaret.

Mother was happy that she was still in control, but also had a vague dislike for how Margaret chose to occupy herself, although not enough to protest. Margaret interacted very little with Fanny, the younger woman usually out with friends or sitting before her piano. Margaret was unsure if this scarcity was due to her presence or if Fanny had always done so. She was polite enough though, and their interactions were not always awkward; they simply had different interests.

"Do you feel at home here, Margaret?" John asked her softly, both of them laying in bed. He looked disquieted, having noticed the underlying stiffness among the women in the house.

Margaret smiled at him reassuringly. "Yes, for the most part. I'm not uncomfortable, if that's what you mean. But it is a little odd to come into a fully operational house as its mistress. And I got so used to our solitude that I've almost forgotten how to behave in front of others."

John chuckled lightly. "Aye, as have I. It's been a struggle to get myself out of bed; to leave your side, to remember I have duties beyond pleasing you."

Margaret's smile slipped. She too had new duties, and while she loved every moment of them, some did take her from John, and his from her. That felt odd after they had been each other's only companion this past month. "Do you suppose… now that were back here, that our passion for each other will wane?"

He looked at her sharply. "Of course not! We're busy now, but things will become less so after the Exhibition and after all the construction is complete."

"That is the dilemma," sighed Margaret. "I _want_ to be busy… but I also want to just lay here with you."

John cupped her jaw and kissed her soundly. "I plan to alter my day now that I have a wonderful wife to spend time with. I won't stay as late and I'll come home at midday too, if the day is not demanding. I don't want a separate life from you."

"I don't want you to be unhappy. I know you don't want to sit around and do nothing all day."

"I won't be unhappy," he disagreed. "I will be with you. "And –" he grinned suddenly "– I will make sure we go to bed early, so that we can spend hours together… _not_ sleeping."

Margaret laughed. "That sounds like a marvelous plan."

.

The schoolhouse was completed in the second week of August. Margaret joyfully flitted in and out of the rooms, pleased with everything. The schoolroom was large enough to accommodate twenty-five children. She worked out a rota for 132 children who were to use the school, those who worked in the mill and their younger siblings; each child attending a day or half day of lessons four times a week. Margaret had great fun ordering any number of things for them, including a wall mounted map and a blackboard. A little potbellied stove sat in the centre of the room so that it would be warm for winter.

Miss Evans had a room at the back of the building, outfitted with all the creature comforts Margaret could think of. Miss Evans was an excellent teacher and communicated well with the children. She wisely saw that it would take a while before the children settled into this exciting new routine of theirs and so didn't push them too hard or scold them for their disorderliness.

The infants room had plenty of toys for the children and colourful images hung over the walls. The mothers of the children were rotated between the mill and the school, in the same design as the kitchen in the mess hall; in addition to Bessy minding the children. Margaret went to visit with the women on the first day of the operation.

"Thank ya, ma'am, for arrangin' all this for us. Ya canna know what it means," Eliza told her earnestly.

"Ever since you came here, everythin' got much better," supplied Catharine.

"I'm so pleased," Margaret smiled. "Let me know of any issues straight away so that we can fix them. This is all experimental, so I want to make sure everything runs smoothly."

There were a few issues reported to her over August, but not many. Most of them were to do with the bouts of separation anxiety that a few of the children experienced, having never been cared for by a non-family member before. One poor girl cried herself into such a fit that the carer was forced to take her into the mill to her mother. The screaming child drew attention, and some of the childless men complained; at least until Margaret bluntly asked them if they wanted to swap duties.

Some of them men did resent her authority in the mill, but it could've been much worse, if Margaret didn't have Williams and the superintendents firmly on her side. Higgins in particular was liable to clout any of the men who grumbled under their breath.

Those incidents were few, however. The majority of the hands were glad of Margaret's input. Thanks to her, their bellies were full, their days easier. Once the final tenement was finished, she was sure that the peevishness would cease almost completely. Perhaps she could persuade Mother and John to hold some sort of celebration for the workers at the end of the summer season, similar to a harvest festival. That would cheer them up and hopefully warm them to her.

.

"Oh, forgive me. I was looking for Mr. Thornton," said a voice in surprise. Margaret looked up from her position behind John's desk, where she was calculating the rents for this month, to see a good-looking man with iron grey hair staring at her quizzically.

"Mr. Thornton is busy at present, fixing a machine in the spinning shed," Margaret explained smilingly. "I am Mrs. Thornton. May I help you?"

"I don't think so. I'm here to inquire after a contract."

"Of course; what is your name?"

"Kennedy," he supplied, looking at her oddly.

Margaret flipped quickly through the contract book, but she was certain he was not in there, his name unfamiliar. Her perusal confirmed it. He was a new client then.

"You've sent no letters previously?" she asked, wanting to make sure. It wasn't a problem; tradesman came often in person.

"Your husband would know I haven't," Kennedy replied stiffly.

Margaret's smile didn't slip. His shock was reasonable; very few women were immersed in a trade like this. "Very well. I can take down your details, and your order. Payments are due –"

"I would prefer to speak to Mr. Thornton."

"As I say, he is busy. But I run the mill with him and can take your order. How soon do you need the product? This present shipment will be finished on the nineteenth, and we can begin after that, if your request is less than ten thousand ells, otherwise –"

"There is no need for you to concern yourself, ma'am," he insisted. "Mr. Thornton will be more able to understand what it is I require."

Margaret raised an eyebrow; half amused, half annoyed. "I understand perfectly. You need to supply how many ells you want and the deadline you need it by, so that I can put it into our schedule."

Kennedy's handsome face disappeared behind a nasty frown. "Ma'am, I wish to speak to Mr. Thornton. That is who runs this mill, and that is who I wish to do business with. If you would be so kind as to take me to him," he sneered.

Margaret stared at him. This was the first time a client had been outwardly rude to her. A few had been understandably surprised at her position but relaxed enough once they saw that she was knowledgeable. This unpleasant man, however, was determined to dismiss her because she was a woman.

"Very well," she said politely. "Follow me."

Margaret led the way through the weaving room and down the stone steps the spinning room. The heat was intense, made worse by the hot day. She asked Mr. Kennedy to wait at the entrance while she entered the room. Watching the doffers carefully so that she wouldn't be in their way, she walked quickly along the rows of machines to find John. At the end of the sixth row, she could see the broken down mule through the steam. John, Williams, the superintendent and the mule's minder were all in their shirt sleeves and hard at work. The mule had been removed from the rollers and almost completely taken apart.

Margaret edged closer to the group, touching the shoulder of the doffer as she came up behind him, so as not to startle him; the clanging of the mules making it impossible for the boy to hear her approach. She motioned for him to get John's attention, the small boy able to nip through the mess of machine parts quicker than she could. John stood up and came over to her with a look of concern. There was no way to let him know what had happened before they got to Mr. Kennedy, so she smiled at him to express that it was nothing alarming. She motioned for John to follow her back to the doorway.

Mr. Kennedy was pacing the small hallway; his mean look giving way to a more placid expression when he caught sight of John.

"This is Mr. Kennedy," Margaret told John. "He is here to negotiate a contract."

"I manage a small dyers in Salford and I'm looking to switch suppliers since Hamper is unable to fit my order in at present," Mr. Kennedy said, almost talking over Margaret. "I will need eight thousand ells a month for the next six months."

"I see, and is there a reason you couldn't tell this to my wife?"

"Well, this is your business, is it not?"

"We run it together. Margaret knows the business, and I was in the middle of something important. All of which I know she told you."

"I would prefer to do business with someone who knows what they're doing," said Mr. Kennedy through his teeth, no doubt frustrated that John was not dismissing her.

John glared at him. "Either return to the office with Margaret and have her arrange the contract or leave. I'm incredibly busy right now and don't have the time."

Mr. Kennedy gaped at John, then looked at Margaret expectantly, as though hypocritically wanting her to speak up and reprimand John for his rudeness. Margaret merely raised her eyebrows.

"You will not take my business?" he asked John in disbelief.

"Not if you're going to be an ass about it."

"Well! Fine, I will take my contract elsewhere," Mr. Kennedy spat. He spun on his heel and pounded up the stairs back to the weaving floor.

"Are you alright?" John asked her.

"Yes, only a little annoyed. That contract was a rather a small one to lament the loss of it, but still."

"Has that happened to you before?"

"Not that relentlessly. Some are shocked, which I don't mind. He was the first that was so rude about it though."

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked John, taking her hand.

"Because it's not a problem," Margaret assured him. "People are bound to be surprised at my role as proprietor."

"They can be surprised as they like, but they've no right to be insolent," John insisted. "Not the clients, nor the hands."

"The hands?"

John gave her a look. "You think I don't know what they've been saying about you?"

Margaret sighed heavily. "I heard some of them grumbling. But it's only minor things."

"And you still want to organize a celebration for them? I understand the housing and the mess hall, but planning a festival for people who resent your presence here seems excessive. Why go out of your way to entertain people who don't want to be appeased?"

"Because I'm a woman doing a man's job. I don't have the luxury of running roughshod over them," said Margaret gently.

"You can be as hard as you like," said John dismissively. "It's not like they can do anything about it."

"No, but it would rather awful of me. And of you," she reminded him pointedly.

He huffed. "Aye, I know that. It just annoys me, that you're being treated this way after all you've done for the workers."

"It's nothing bad," said Margaret soothingly. "They're adjusting to it, that's all. I was an idea before, but now I'm here in their space. They'll get over it."

"Well, you were right about the Irish; no doubt you'll be right about this too," said John with a smile.

"Of course I am," laughed Margaret, pulling him down for a kiss.

.

'My Dear Niece, in response to your letter, I have re-examined my stance on your union and found my feelings unchanged. I did not have an aversion to Mr. Thornton as a person, but after my meeting him, he was far different to the perception you gave me in the letter you sent prior to your wedding. I also cannot pretend that I am not shocked about how you have chosen to spend your married life – working in a factory when you ought to be keeping a home. Out of love for you and the many happy years you spent under my care, I will take the matter no further, but since you asked my opinion, I feel I must be truthful. In following that line, I will not stop Edith from continuing her association with you if that is what she chooses. But at present, I do not wish to welcome your new family into our circle. Affectionately, Your Aunt Shaw.'

Margaret crumpled up the letter angrily. Affectionately, indeed. She was not surprised at the letter but that didn't make her any less cross. She didn't want to show it to John. It would only upset him, and for no reason. This cut wouldn't affect their life. They'd not been planning on spending seasons in London or having the Shaws visit, nor were the two families friends to begin with. Edith was the person Margaret wanted to continue with, and they'd began a tentative correspondence since their fight. Margaret enthusiastically told her about how wonderful her new life was, and all their plans were coming along. Edith offered sincere congratulations but Margaret could tell she was unsure how to relate to Margaret's joy over the fact that a new buyer in Montserrat had requested regular contracts or that she'd secured living quarters for all the hands in the mill.

Mama, similarly, was unable to find much happiness over Margaret's new life. During the second of her visits, Margaret took Mama through her beautiful new home, and proudly showed her the schoolhouse. She'd also asked if Mama wanted to see the mill, but Mama declined, citing that the noise and heat would wreak havoc with her nerves.

"I can't pretend to understand your fondness for this smoky place," said Mama, holding her handkerchief to her nose as they walked back to the manor from the schoolhouse.

"Mama, now that's happened, wouldn't it be better if you just accept it?" asked Margaret bluntly. "There's nothing you can do about it anymore."

"Just because you're married, doesn't mean all your problems will disappear," Mama sniffed. "They'll get worse, as we've all been telling you for months."

"Exactly," said Margaret crossly. "I'll have enough to do without having to mediate you as well. You don't have to approve my choices, Mama, but you do have to respect them."

"And what about John's mother? Has she been respecting your choices?"

"She isn't still _harping_ on at the point." Mother actually seemed to have warmed to Margaret lately, pleased at the increase in production and profit, and that her new daughter-in-law hadn't shoved her out of her home.

"Which isn't the same as acceptance," said Mama spitefully.

.

One her way home from the mill a fortnight later, Margaret stopped by the school to see how Miss Evans was getting on, and to invite her to attend the mill celebration that would take place the same week as the Thornton dinner. Margaret halted her knock on the door, confused by the sound of crying. It couldn't be one of the children, everyone had already gone home for the day. She peered through the window and saw that it was Miss Evans herself. She was trying to pack up the supplies, but kept having to stop to wipe her eyes with her sleeve.

Margaret opened the door slowly. "Alice, are you alright?" she asked softly.

"Oh! Of course, ma'am. Just a little dusty in here, is all," said Miss Evans earnestly. She began to pack away the slates with much more haste.

"Please tell me, if you are comfortable doing so," Margaret said gently. "I want to help if there's a problem."

"There's no problem!" Miss Evans insisted. "It's only… a small matter. It's got nothin' to do with my work, I promise!"

Margaret thought on that. From all she had seen so far, Miss Evans loved her work. The children liked her and all the parents were pleased that their children were getting a free education. She'd not received one complaint about Miss Evans this past month.

A month, Margaret realized; the issue beginning to dawn on her. She looked around the room. During the day, the place was full of energy, the mill bursting with people, carts and mules; the noise almost deafening. But now, the mill was eerily silent, and everyone had gone home. Even Margaret herself had been on her way back to her family and John's comforting embrace. Margaret cursed herself for her thoughtlessness.

"Have you been lonely?"

Miss Evans eyes filled with tears again, confirming Margaret's suspicions. Margaret suddenly remembered how incredibly young the girl was. Miss Evans had never been on her own before. Even without her parents, she'd been surrounded by all the others at the foundling home. And now she'd spent the past month sitting by herself every evening, while everyone else went back to their families.

Margaret pulled the crying girl in for a hug. "I'm so sorry, dear. I didn't even think of it. I was blinded by your cleverness. I forgot how young you are."

"I dinna mean to criticize you, ma'am!" she wept. "You've been so kind to me, and given me a job I love and a place in the world, where before I was only drifting aimless. I dinna want to tell you that I was lonely, after you went to so much trouble to make me comfortable here."

"I shouldn't have been so tactless," Margaret scolded herself. "Come with me. I'll introduce you to the staff and arrange for all your things to be taken up to a room in the house. Our cook, Mrs. Roberts, is a lovely woman, and all the maids are about your age and great fun. I'm sure you'll all be friends."

Margaret steered the girl firmly to the manor and down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Roberts plunked a pasty and a cup of tea in front of her, and the maids fluttered around her, talking a mile a minute. When Margaret rang for Caoimhe to help her dress for dinner, she asked her to make sure Miss Evans was well taken care of.

Over dinner, Margaret told Mother and John about her new arrangement for Miss Evans.

"I can't believe I was so thoughtless," Margaret groaned. "I didn't even think what it might be like, her staying by herself in the empty schoolhouse every night, while we were here in the manor like a beacon of friendliness to taunt her."

"It didn't occur to me either," John admitted. "I didn't think of her beyond the good reports she's been getting."

"I thought she would've enjoyed the solicitude, after wrangling of all those children every day," said Mother. "But she is quite young, so perhaps it's right she doesn't feel that way."

"Everything was going so well, I was congratulating myself over how clever I've been and didn't stop to think of others. What else have I missed?" Margaret fretted.

"Nothing, darling," said John soothingly. "It was just one mistake. There's no reason to think you've made any others."

Margaret nodded numbly, but wasn't pacified. When she went up to her dressing room to change for bed, she had to clamp her hand over her mouth so that no one could hear her sobs. She was truly appalled at herself, how careless she'd been. Her hysteria confused her, the sobs that tore through her at another's grief.

"Mairead! What's 'appened?" asked Caoimhe frantically, taking her hand.

Margaret couldn't answer, her throat too tight. She gripped Caoimhe's hand and took deep breaths, trying to stop the flow of tears.

"I keep – thinking about – her – being so alone," Margaret hiccoughed. "While I was here – happy – I can't seem to stop crying! What's – wrong with me?"

Margaret slid to the floor and buried her face in her knees. Caoimhe sat next to her and rubbed her back soothingly.

"I think it's stress, ma'am. All of this piled on you, all at once. Ya had a long break but now you're back in thick of things again."

"But I like what I've been doing!"

"Ya can be both. The weddin' was stressful, and that was a good thing too."

Margaret lifted the hem of her shift to wipe at her eyes, Caoimhe's words piercing her sadness. She _had_ been working harder this past month, and pushing herself to be good at her new duties. She'd checked herself constantly in front of Mother and Fanny, not wanting to step on their toes in their own house. She'd been stretched taunt for weeks, but thinking that this jumpiness was due to her elation over her new life. And it was, mostly, but also had an undercurrent of strain – the belief that she had to be utterly perfect to prove to everyone that she was an asset to John and good at her role as his wife, especially as it wasn't a conventional interpretation.

"I wanted everything to be perfect," Margaret moaned. "I had everything planned, how everything – was supposed to work. We we're supposed to – come back and have everything run smoothly. Everyone was supposed to be getting along – and – none of that happened!"

"That's not true, ma'am," said Caoimhe firmly. "Everythin' _has_ been goin' well. The schoolhouse is marvelous and the mill is producin' double what it was this time last year, you told me that yerself."

"Mama –"

"You mother needs to stop bein' so awful to you. You don't 'ave to prove anythin' to anyone. Master already loves you, and 'e's so proud of what you've done."

"That I am. Very much so."

John's voice sounded from the door way. He stepped into the room, looking grave. He was half undressed, having been getting ready for bed in the other room before no doubt being drawn towards the hidden door at Margaret's hysterical exultations.

"You've a bad habit of listening in to my conversations," sniffed Margaret, but without malice. She would've had to explain this breakdown to him later anyway, unable to hide her red eyes when she got into bed with him.

"I'm not sorry about that right now. Caoimhe's right, my love. You don't have to prove yourself," John said earnestly, kneeling down in front of her. "I don't know why you thought you did –"

"That's the point, I _didn't_ think, not about any of it! I've been so thoughtless –"

"Shh, Margaret, where is all this coming from? You've never second-guessed yourself like this before. All of our plans are coming together beautifully. Everything is fine. You fixed your mistake with Miss Evans the instant you found out about it."

"But how many more have there been? I've missed something; something terrible, I know it."

"You haven't," John insisted. "I would've told you if there was a detail that was missing. You're good at what you do, Margaret."

Margaret cries subsided a little. She buried her face in her shift again, beginning to feel shame replacing her sadness. This type of overreaction wasn't like her. She heard John dismiss Caoimhe softly. Margaret gave her hand a final squeeze in thanks.

"Is it me?" he asked quietly, after the door closed behind Caoimhe. "Have I been neglecting you?"

"Of course not!" she cried, jerking her head up to look at him. "No, John, never that. It was everyone _else_ ; it was coming back and having everyone being just as testy as before; Mama and Aunt Shaw. It was me, trying to be three different people to appease everyone – the dutiful daughter-in-law, the new mistress, and the proprietor. Trying to be perfect for everyone, instead of being myself."

"Aye," he agreed gently. "I have noticed that. I've seen how you and Mother are, and Fanny too. I can't think what it is to come into someone's house like this, being the mistress but the novice as well. All I have to go on was when I took over the mill. I solved that dilemma by being as harsh as possible, so that my new employees could have no doubt that I was in charge. That style definitely won't work with Mother."

Margaret gave an amused sniff at that. "No, it wouldn't. She'd throw me out on the street."

"And even when you spoke to that misogynistic man who came to the mill. You're not normally a blandly polite person and I was surprised you brought him to me. I expected him to leave the mill running in fear with his tail between his legs."

Margaret sighed. "It was on my mind. But I wanted to be… professional, and taken seriously as the proprietor."

"Of course, but that doesn't mean you can't say what you think," he told her warmly, maneuvering himself closer to her, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. "Everything is going fine, my love, I promise you. You're handling everything with such grace and practicality. The majority of workers have commented on how improved their lives are, how much you've helped them. Mother was pleased by your kindness to her. You made a mistake, but that doesn't diminish all the good you've done as well."

Margaret sighed, melting against his body. "Thank you, John. I feel a little silly now, at my outburst. I don't normally react like this when I'm challenged."

"Everything is so new to us, even thought it's what we wanted. We'll get everything ironed out soon enough," he assured her. "Do you need me to take over anything, so that you can focus more on less things?"

Margaret thought on that. "No, I don't think so. I've not been feeling overworked. I love it, in fact. I think it was just… I was so happy, desperately so, and then to be brought back to earth by such a sad thing, I completely lost my head. I'm better now, I promise."

Good," he smiled. John stood up and pulled her to her feet. He helped her undress and then picked her up to carry her to bed, to make her laugh. Under the covers, she hugged him closer to her.

"I've seen that your mother hasn't changed her behavior toward me, but I've not heard you speak of your Aunt. Does that mean she hasn't relented?"

Margaret sighed; John knew her too well. "No, she hasn't. She wrote to me, saying she was happy for me, in her way, but that she wouldn't let us visit her. She didn't ban Edith, which is what I really wanted anyway."

"I'm so sorry, love," said sadly. "That you should lose your family over me –"

" _You_ are my family, John. As long as you are with me, I can stand anything. I didn't tell you about her letter when I received it because I knew it wouldn't affect our life together. Edith and I have been writing, and it's a little stilted but it's progressing."

"And Mother?"

"Our relationship is far better, truly. We've the dinner party to plan; that'll be fun and we can argue over everything. That ought to clear the air between us, at least."

John chuckled in spite of himself. "Aye, I can't wait to see the result of those arguments."

.

.

.

The beginning of September brought with it a kiss of cool air; the sign that winter would soon be upon them. Margaret and Mother worked hard on the dinner party, wanting it be bigger than it had been in previous years, so as to establish it firmly in Milton's social calendar, to go along with their expanding wealth. Margaret had debated inviting Edith, but then had decided not to push the matter before they were both ready. John had thought that inviting Edith to a dinner party would've been a nice gesture, and something she could relate to in Margaret's new life, but Margaret had been adamant that it would push them both too far at present.

Margaret helped the cook prepare some of the dishes. She made the _mille-feuille_ cake herself, Mrs. Roberts proclaiming that it was as good as any a chef could make. Margaret was determined to dazzle their guests with her imaginative menu, scouring numerous cookbooks for the most tantalizing recipes. A Greek dish with octopus was sure to intrigue everyone, as would the spicy soup from China.

She sat in the place of pride opposite him at the dining table, looking beautiful in her new evening gown. She'd designed it herself, and had a harvest theme running through it. It was a pleasing orange shade with sheer cotton sleeves. The fabric was embroidered over with golden patterns that one was only able to deduce were stalks of wheat when they looked closer.

They invited a larger number of people than they had in previous years. All the other mill owners and their families, the Hales, Latimers, Sarah and her father, Mr. Jenkins, all the women in the Ladies Aid and their husbands. Mother and Margaret had picked apart the personalities and interests of all of their guests, so as to seat them next to the person who would enjoy their company the most. Margaret wanted to seat Ann Latimer next to Henderson's son in an effort to prod the two shy people into a friendship she was sure would please them both. John had protested her matchmaking, but she used her many delightful bedroom talents to make him give in; which he did, gasping with lust.

Everyone talked happily together, the event not as tense as it had been last year. John was amazed when he thought back to that day and how far they'd come since then. Margaret looked as though she was thinking of that night too and smiled knowingly whenever she caught his eye. It had marked the beginning of all their schemes, and John's awareness that Margaret was the perfect partner for him.

When the women retired, whiskey and cigars were passed around. Even the taste of whiskey brought a secretive smile to John's lips.

"You've looked very happy lately," noted Fred, coming to sit next to him.

"Aye, I have been," John replied smiling. The reference made him remember that Fred had _not_ been happy. "And you? Not getting into any mischief?"

"Nah, not lately. I've actually been working hard, if you can believe it. Well, harder than I did before, which isn't saying much. Definitely not as hard as you and Margaret. She took me through the schoolhouse earlier; that's a grand thing."

"Aye," said John proudly. "It's been wonderful. It's always pleasing when plans work out. Speaking of which, are you still looking for your own place to live?"

"I'm thinking about it. Mother doesn't want me to go yet, so I think I'll stay a bit longer till all this unpleasantness with her and Margaret has been settled."

"Do you think it will be?" John asked him doubtfully. "Mrs. Hale hasn't been particularly kind to Margaret, and didn't do anything to stop her sister from cutting us."

Fred scowled. "No, she didn't. Margaret told me the letter she sent was polite rather than offensive. But that somehow makes it worse to me; Aunt Shaw saying that she loves Margaret, but not enough to do this one thing that won't even affect her very much?"

"Aye, it seems rather odd to me, where she has drawn the line. But what Margaret really wanted was her relationship with Edith and that seems to be progressing."

"Really?" asked Fred, surprised. "I didn't think it was, since they weren't invited tonight."

"Margaret thought it would push them too far at present."

Fred sighed heavily, and downed his whiskey in one, before reaching for the decanter again. "Aren't all these rules stupid? Society always puts more emphasis on what _others_ thing of you, than what you think of yourself. Everything I do pleases me, but distresses everyone else, which is why I feel so discontented all the time. If people didn't spend all their time with their nose in my business, I'd be far happier."

John snorted amusedly. "Aye, I've often felt that way myself. If I cared more about societal rules, I might never have put myself forward to create the wonderful life I have now; my mill and Margaret both."

Fred slowly lowered his glass without taking a sip, an odd look in his eye. "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, exactly. That's exactly what you've done. You didn't care how it would look, you just pushed against all resistance until it disappeared."

"Well, it hasn't disappeared exactly –"

"No, it has! All the important things," said Fred excitedly, clapping his hand on John's shoulder companionably. "Thank you, John. That was exactly what I needed to hear."

John watched bemusedly as a wide grin spread across Fred's features and he threw back the whiskey. When the men joined the women in the drawing room, Fred started a game of cards with several people, laughing and joking all the while, looking far happier than John had seen him recently. It seemed John's statement had helped him reach an epiphany of some kind. John hoped fervently it wasn't one that was going to get Fred in trouble.

After all their guests had gone home and John had gotten into bed, Margaret came into the bedroom in her thin nightgown, looking particularly ravishing. She was elated by their success, glad that the dinner party was sure to be talked about excitedly by Miltoners for weeks afterwards.

John pulled her in for a kiss, his fingers finding the hem of her nightgown and pushing it upwards out of the way, wanting her to be naked as well. "This was exactly how I imagined the last dinner party ending," he said wickedly.

Margaret grinned. "It would've been a far more scandalous ending; we weren't married."

"And you didn't even like me," he teased.

"I did!" she protested. "I didn't love you yet, but I did think highly of you. I liked being with you."

"Enough that you would've come to my bed had I suggested it?"

"Of course; I would've done anything to get that horrible day out of my head," she jested, grinning at him. "Did you imagine me doing that?"

"Aye, in a fanciful, half-formed way. I always wanted to make you my wife, so it wasn't nearly so scandalous in my head."

Margaret laughed at that. She moved to straddle him; John stretching beneath her, folding his hands behind his head. "You wouldn't have been timid about it either," he grinned, continuing their fantasy. "You were just as excited about it as I was. You all but –"

Margaret slapped her hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare say, 'begged'. I've never begged you for anything in my life." She saw his expression change and realized her mistake. "Oh no, I take it back! Don't you dare –!"

"It's too late now," he said roguishly, pulling her down to kiss him. "You gave me the challenge. I've no choice but to follow through."

"Oh _no_ …"

John sat up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Kissing her continuously, he shifted them until they were at the edge of the bed. He wrapped her arms around her, holding her securely to him as he he stood up. John set her on her feet at the end of the bed, swept her shift from her body, and lifted her arms above her head to grip the bedpost behind her. He stood back and drank in her body.

Her lips were swollen from their ardent kiss, her hair coming loose from her braid. She was regarding him impishly, panting slightly. She'd continued with the depilatory, liking the enhanced pleasure the sensitivity gave her.

"I'm not going to beg for you," Margaret said haughtily, eyes dancing with amusement.

"Oh, I think you will," he growled in her ear, running his tongue against the edge of it. He ran his fingertips down her arms to her breasts, barely touching her. He held his thumb to her nipple, thrumming it slightly, grinning when Margaret began shifting uncomfortably, pressing her legs together. John kept his body as close to her as he could without touching her, so that all she could feel was the heat of him. He tripped his fingers further down her body, between her legs, back to her nipples and over again. He teased her intensely, only using the lightest touches.

He knew from experience that Margaret loved this kind of teasing from him. She always pounced on him when she could stand it no longer, but this time he was going to make her say the words. He slid his fingers into her, but pulled back every time she tried to grind herself against him. John had to use his other hand to hold her hands to the bedpost; she looked as though her wobbly legs wouldn't hold her much longer.

"John…"

"Tell me what you want," he purred, catching her gaze. Margaret pressed her lips together and shook her head playfully, gasping when he knelt down in front of her. He touched his tongue to her in the same way, lightly, teasingly, until Margaret was panting breathlessly. She tried to thread her fingers through his hair, but he pulled away and stood up, putting her hands back above her head.

"John," she whimpered. "You are being so unfair. And how is this not driving you crazy too?"

"It is," he chuckled. "That's why I want you to give in… say it; tell me what you want…"

"I…"

John ran his tongue against her lips, fluttering his fingers inside her again. Just when he thought he'd have to give in to his insane lust, Margaret gasped and said, "I – I want you."

"What do you want?"

"I want you… inside me. I want more of this; I want you, John," she begged, arching her back in pleasure. John chuckled triumphantly and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. Too impatient to get back in bed, the two of them sank to the floor; John kneeling down, Margaret wrapping her legs firmly around his waist. She took him in hand and drew him quickly inside her.

John slid his hands up her back to her shoulders, pulling her deeper around him. Margaret sighed and tipped her head back. John bit at her neck and collarbone, groaning when she tensed her inner muscles around the length of him. They went slowly, savoring the position. They didn't often satisfy each other this way, so when he was sheathed inside her, their pleasure from it was vastly increased.

He drove himself in to her, trying to think of something else to starve of his own peak, wanting to pleasure her over and over until she was all but boneless beneath him. John pressed his hand to her mound, digging his fingers against her skin until she moaned loudly and pulsed around him.

"Oh, there… right there, don't stop…"

John growled to hear her breathlessly begging for him again, and increased his movements. She came again, crying out, then kissing him frantically. They both moved desperately against each other, wanting Margaret to peak one more time. He fell apart just before she did, their cries of pleasure overlapping. John slumped to the floor, pulling Margaret to lay next to him; the cool wood feeling wonderful against his sweaty skin.

"If I knew that's how it felt, I might've really tumbled into bed with you that night," sighed Margaret.

John stuttered out a laugh. "It does feel as though every time we're together we discover some wonderful new thing."

"Yes, I like that; trying new positions. I like learning new things," she said roguishly.

"Hmm, perhaps we ought to buy more pictures, see what other tempting things we can discover."

Margaret snorted. "If we do, you are going all the way to London for them, wearing a disguise. No one can ever know that you buy things like that, especially not with my approval."

"A disguise?" he laughed in disbelief. "What, a villainous mustache?"

"And a monocle!"

.

.

.

A week after the celebrations at the mill, Watson called on John at the mill. John was surprised to see him, as they had no business issue together at present. Watson looked chipper; he smiled jovially at John as he entered the office.

"Watson," John greeted him.

"You must congratulate me, Thornton. I realized that I ought to ask your permission, but that's a bit of nonsense, isn't it? Fanny will be very happy now, I think."

John froze. Was Watson suggesting what he thought he was? "Excuse me?" he asked warningly.

Watson looked a little taken aback by John's anger. "I have made an offer of marriage to Fanny, and she has accepted. Did she not tell you?"

"No, she has not," he growled. "When on earth have you had call to speak to her?" He would have never let this odious man near his sister if he knew he had designs on her.

"Here at your house!" replied Watson indignantly. "At the dinner parties… and I've met her several times in Green's and such. She's always very affectionate when we speak."

"And you think because of that you have a right to marry her?" he bit out. John could feel himself getting angrier by the second. Watson had likened Fanny to that of a flirt. He'd come in here, puffed up and pompous, certain that John would agree.

"She has agreed! Most happily, I assure you!" cried Watson, standing angrily. "I thought you'd approve, I'm a good match for your family, even you must admit that!"

John shot to his feet. He flexed his hand in an effort not to strike the man. "I do not approve! I will not give my consent to the match. Fanny will write to you tomorrow, rescinding her agreement," he snarled. Watson opened his mouth furiously to shout back at him, but John cut across him. "Get out. Don't you dare come near Fanny again."

Watson looked as though he was going to protest. He seemed utterly shocked by John's refusal. He turned on his heel and stalked away. John watched him leave through the window, then thundered down the stairs to the house, determined to confront Fanny about her behavior.

He found Margaret reading in the library. She looked up in surprise at his livid entrance.

"Darling, are you alright?" she asked, her brow creasing in concern.

"Where's Fanny?" he asked in a flinty voice.

"She went to visit a friend. What's happened?"

John began to pace the room. "Fanny has agreed to marry Watson. He came to see me just now, asking me to _congratulate_ him. The pompous jackass," he growled. "I told him I would not give my consent. Fanny will retract her agreement."

Margaret raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Is that fair, John? Surely Fanny came marry whomever she likes?"

"Not this man!" he shouted. "He is completely unsuitable! He doesn't care for her at all!"

"John, I'm sure he does admire her," said Margaret soothingly. "I've seen them together–"

"You knew about this?!" he exclaimed, spinning towards her.

"No, John! I didn't know he wanted to marry her; I only wanted to say that he does seem to care for her. And it is unfair of you to outright forbid her from marrying whomever she chooses."

"I do forbid it! She cannot marry anyone she wants! She is under my charge, and I will say what she does."

Margaret gaped at him, her own anger growing. "Fanny is her own person! She's old enough to know her own mind!"

John rounded on her. "So you think I should let her marry that idiot? Who cares nothing for her except her wealth? He practically admitted to me that I would beg him to take her because it would be an advantageous match; that she could not hope to do better!"

Margret took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Darling, I agree that he's not a perfect match. But you've not even asked Fanny what she thinks. Maybe she loves him."

"She does not. I know she does not. All she has done is disobey me," he snarled. He knew none of this was Margaret's fault, but he couldn't stop himself. She was not taking his side, and was only making excuses for Fanny and Watson's abhorrent behavior.

"No one has disobeyed you, John!" cried Margaret. "You never gave orders for her in this matter. You've never dictated who she can and cannot see before, why should she have guessed that you'd refuse her this? I don't understand why you are reacting so strongly. You are being incredibly hypocritical, John, after all your speeches about let me live _my_ own life!"

"That's different," he insisted crossly, not wanting to admit she was right. "You're my wife, and nowhere near as ridiculous as Fanny."

"It's not different, and you know it," she said in irritation. "You're not thinking clearly about this. Watson probably didn't mean it that way; he was likely trying to explain that he is able to provide for her; that he has wealth enough for her."

"Of course you would take his side, you're exactly like him! You only married me for the same reason!"

He wanted to swallow the words as soon as he said them, but there they were, out in the open, and there was nothing he could do. Margaret's mouth dropped open; he eyes filled with tears of hurt.

A spasm of pain rippled through him at her injured expression. He reached for her. "Margaret – I –"

She shook her head and pressed her lips into a hard line in an effort not to cry. She turned and fled; her footsteps clattering up the stairs to their bedroom. He flinched when he heard the door slam, echoing loudly in the huge house. John sagged down onto the leather chair, head in his hands.

He hadn't meant to say that. The words had been borne of frustration that Margaret wasn't as angry as he was over this; that she was focusing on money, of all things. He'd half forgotten about that fear of his; that she would not want to marry a man like him. The glorious aftermath of her agreement and every blissful moment with Margaret that followed had erased it almost completely. But now, Watson's presumption had brought it back to the forefront of his mind. Watson had just assumed that John would agree because he was the son of a gentleman, and because he was consenting to marry Fanny, even though she was beneath him.

It made him think of the fight Margaret and Edith had, how Edith had been appalled by Margaret's assertion that she was going to marry a tradesman. Mrs. Hale and Margaret's Aunt Shaw had also not improved their behavior; indeed, Mrs. Hale made spiteful remarks to Margaret continuously and almost never visited the manor. Margaret told him she was dealing with it all just fine, and John did believe her. But surely the stress of it would take its toll sooner or later; just as it had done when she discovered her mistake with Miss Evans. Would Margaret wake up one day and wish she could take it all back?

He was still in that position when his mother found him.

"John, what's wrong?" she asked.

John groaned and lifted his pained gaze to his mother. "Margaret and I had a fight. Well, not so much a fight as her trying to get me to see sense and me shouting obscenities. I said something awful to her…," he whispered in anguish.

"Oh, John," sighed Mother. "I knew that temper of yours would get you in trouble sooner or later. I'm surprised it took you this long."

John sucked in a breath and scrubbed morosely at his face. "What if she never forgives me?"

"Of course she will," Mother replied crisply. "Go and apologize to her; explain what made you angry and what drove you to speak as you did. Don't leave anything out. You must be honest if you are to earn her forgiveness."

He knew that was what he needed to do, and exactly what he and Margaret had agreed they would always do when they fought. But John was afraid he would blurt out another untruth, say the wrong thing, as he had done almost every other time Margaret challenged him this way.

Heart thudding in his chest, he bounded quickly up the stairs to their room. He was half expecting her to have locked the door against him, but the doorknob turned easily under his hand.

Margaret was sitting against the headboard, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her chin resting on them. Her eyes were red and puffy from her tears. John walked slowly into the room, to give her a chance to refuse him entry. She didn't; she merely watched his approach with a steely eye.

He sat cautiously in front of her. "Margaret, my love, I am so sorry," he said wretchedly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean it. I know that's still not acceptable, shouting at you as I did."

He reached for her hand, enclosing it in both of his. She allowed the contact but her hand was lifeless in his. She glared at him.

"I believe you when you say you're sorry. But why did you say it? After all the times you've told me that I am my own person, that you _enjoy_ that about me… How can you accuse me of only marrying you because of money? That I lowered myself to only marry you for your fortune? I know my own mind, John; and I would never marry someone I do not love."

John groaned. He pressed their linked hands to his forehead. "I _do_ love that you are a free spirit, Margaret. Truly. Please, I didn't mean it like that; I spoke in anger." He raised his eyes to hers. "Watson's remark about Fanny… about how the match was a good one, because he is a gentleman and she is the daughter – and sister – of tradesman… It made me think once again about _our_ position; that you are a woman of gentle birth who married beneath you. I know you do not think that, but society does. _That_ was why I was so angry. It was not about Watson really, although I do think him unsuitable for Fanny. It was because his attitude brought back all my insecurities about us."

"But I married you, John – for love. I do love you, and you ought to know that," she whispered.

"I do! I know you love me, as I love you. But sometimes I feel my happiness is too much; that there has to be some dreadful thing to balance it. Never in my life have I felt such joy before, there must be some cost to it."

"That's irrational; there is nothing but joy in our union. I am telling you, once and for all, that I married you because I love you. That is a fact and is known to you. I don't want it to be dragged up every time we have a disagreement."

John shook his head frantically, but Margaret wasn't finished. She gripped his hand tightly to intensify her point. "We are going to argue in our marriage, John. We're both too passionate not to, and neither of us are the type to simply drift listlessly along and agree to everything. In fact, I like disagreeing with you; it makes for more interesting conversations. But today, I thought we were only having a discussion, until you raged at me most unfairly and blindsided me. I want to be able to tell you what I think about our issues, without you accusing me of living a lie."

"I promise, my love," he vowed earnestly, shifting closer to her. "I will never speak of it again. And I will endeavor to be calmer when we talk of things that vex me. I knew from the start that I was being irrational, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I will make more of an effort in future. I desperately don't want to hurt you again."

"Thank you, John," she replied, sighing a little. He could see that he had wounded her enormously with his careless remark. She had seen it as a retraction on his love of her very nature.

"Can you forgive me?" he whispered, waiting with bated breath.

"Yes, darling. I forgive you."

John let out a weighty sigh. He leaned into her until his head was resting on her chest, his legs tucked up on the bed alongside hers. She gently combed her fingers through his hair. Both were silent, thinking on each other's words, and this milestone; their first fight as a married couple. This had had the potential to be a terrible row, in terms of what they fought about – one of the foundations of their marriage. But their agreement to always be honest mitigated it. He was satisfied he'd been able to explain it to her, how his anger came from fear; and pleased too, that Margaret had let him apologize to her, instead of shutting him out.

John agreed with Margaret's assessment; they were both too impassioned to hope that they would never argue in their marriage. But he promised himself that he would never force himself into a position where he had to ask her for forgiveness in this matter again.

"You must talk to Fanny, darling," said Margaret softly, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Ask her why she has accepted. By all means, tell her that you think him unsuitable, and why you think so. But let her have a chance to tell you her view as well."

John sighed. "Aye, I will. Will you be there, please? I will likely be calmer if you are there to check me."

"Of course," replied Margaret, smoothing her palm across his brow. His eyes closed luxuriously at her touch.

After a few moments reflection, he asked, "Do you think she could be happy with him? I can't imagine they have anything in common. Besides a love of extravagance."

"I think Fanny would put more stock in wealth than love," said Margaret quietly, dismaying John.

"Then I have failed her as a brother."

"Of course you haven't. You have given her everything. But she _is_ young and Watson is the first person to give her attention like this. Fanny is the least likely in your family to be noticed, and it has gone to her head completely."

"Least likely to be noticed?" repeated John in confusion, straightening up to look at Margaret.

Margaret wrinkled her nose. "Yes. She has always been overshadowed by you and your mother. The two of you just exude this… elegance and gravitas that Fanny cannot hope to mimic. You are a powerful man in Milton; and your mother simply commands respect just by how she looks. But Fanny… she is too flippant. As a result, people often pass her by. Did you never wonder why she dresses that way and acts as boisterous as she does? She wants people to pay attention to her."

"I… I had not thought about it. She has never said anything to that effect to me," said John, Margaret's insight once again aweing him.

"I don't believe she would. You don't seem to have the relationship of ease that Fred and I do. Perhaps it is because she doesn't completely see you as her brother. You are her protector, her authority figure, and have been for longer than her father was. Maybe she feels she cannot approach you with this."

"With good reason, it seems, if my reaction today has taught me anything," John sighed. He felt ashamed of himself again, for a whole new reason. He'd never thought his sister to have that depth to her.

"Let's go down to the drawing room and wait for her," said Margaret, taking his hand. "She told me she would be back at five and it's half four now. We'll talk to her together. And we should tell Mother as well, so that she is not left out of the loop. No doubt she'll have a third contrary opinion on all of this."

John snorted. "Aye, that she will."

After filling in the details for Mother – who, conflictingly, was annoyed by Watson's arrogance but did think Fanny ought to marry the wealthy man – the three of them waited in the drawing room for Fanny. She soon arrived in a cloud of smugness that disappeared the moment she saw the look on their faces; they all knew her secret already, and were not pleased.

"Fanny. Sit down, please," said Mother soberly.

Fanny, already on the defensive, was going to challenge them. She did sit, however, clenching her jaw in anger.

John sighed. This was going to be difficult. "Fanny, Watson came to me, informing me that you have agreed to his marriage proposal. Is this true?"

Fanny lifted her chin. "Yes. He asked me yesterday when I was walking in the park."

"Have you told anyone?" asked his mother, alarmed for her daughter's reputation.

"Only Ann Latimer and Jane Hardy. Why shouldn't I tell people? It'll be in the papers soon enough," replied Fanny loftily.

"You shouldn't have told people in case the engagement had to be broken off," explained Margaret gently. Fanny gave her a sour look, not liking that her new sister-in-law was lecturing her on her behavior.

"Margaret is right, Fanny. You ought to have spoken to us at least, before you told your friends," said Mother, annoyed.

Fanny looked a little shamefaced at that, but pressed on defensively. "He is a little grey and not much to look at, but he's very well set up. He's a very good match for us Thorntons."

"Did _he_ tell you that?" asked John angrily. Margaret lay a steading hand on his arm. John cleared his throat irritably and tried again. "Surely you couldn't have expected me to consent to the match? He's much too old for you, not to mention unsuitable."

"You're older than Margaret," said Fanny tartly.

"By eight years! Not twenty!" He huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you love him?"

Fanny looked infuriated by his direct question. "No. But he's very rich, and he'll be able to buy me anything I want. I'm sure I'll be happy with him."

"How is that any different to now? I have never limited your spending, and I have let you do exactly as you want! If you do not love him, what possible benefit can you obtain from the match that you do not have now?" demanded John confusedly.

His comment unleashed a wave of emotion in Fanny. She leapt to her feet, her eyes flashing dangerously. "I want to do it because I cannot stay in this house any longer! I am nothing here! Mother only cares about you, and you only care about Margaret!" she shouted.

"Fanny, that is not true–"

Fanny cut off her mother as if she hadn't heard her. "I'm always ignored by you and Mother! You never ask my opinions, you pick at me all the time. I thought you'd be glad to finally be rid of me! Now you and Margaret can start your happy life together!"

The three elder Thorntons stared at Fanny, shocked by her outburst. John had never realized that his sister felt this way.

"I don't want to be rid of you, Fanny," said John quietly. "I want you to stay here as long as you like."

"Well, I don't," replied Fanny shortly. "I want to run my own home; not sit by on the sidelines like some maiden aunt, while the three of you make plans and fuss vulgarly over Margaret's children. I want my own life."

"Fanny, you're talking as if you're a middle-aged spinster," said Margaret, unable to hide her amusement despite the grave situation. "You're only nineteen. There is plenty of time for you to have all that. There is no need for you to rush into anything."

Fanny gave Margaret another thunderous look. Margaret held up her hand placating. "Please, think rationally. Do you really want to wake up next to that awful man for the rest of your life? And he _is_ much older than you; what if he dies while you're still a young woman? Then you'll be a young widow and it'll be that much harder to find a new husband."

John could see that Fanny was thinking on Margaret's words despite herself, her face red with anger and embarrassment. John thought quickly, wondering how best to resolve the situation. Fanny looked as though she was second-guessing her engagement but would be loathed to admit that her sister-in-law was right, and might be driven to do something rash in order to deny it.

He moved towards her and took her hand gently. She looked surprised; the two of them rarely touched. "Fanny, I don't want you marrying a man you do not love. It'll be far worse in the long run. I want you to be as happy in your marriage as I am in mine. I don't want to see you waste your life." He took a deep breath as an idea suddenly occurred to him. "Go to London, have a season there. Meet someone better for you, someone worthy of you. Margaret can help us to arrange it."

Margaret's expression brightened. "Certainly! Why didn't I think of that? I will write to Edith; she'd be overjoyed to have a guest to show off in London. She always has plenty of handsome officers about her, I'm sure one will catch your eye," said Margaret shrewdly, playing on Fanny's vanity.

Fanny's eyes widened. London was her greatest dream. John could see her mind whirring as she planned it all out; the clothes she would buy and all the places she would get to see – operas and concerts in abundance; the Great Exhibition still going. The bills for her season would be astronomical no doubt, but it would be worth it if she was happy.

This more enticing offer made Fanny completely abandon her marriage plans. Margaret wrote to Edith directly, who in turn informed the family that she would be happy to have Fanny come to stay for the winter, promising to introduce her to all manner of smart beau.

Despite her dislike of London, Mother also agreed to the plan. She hoped that her time in London would soothe Fanny's flightiness; and if she got a rich husband in the bargain, so much the better.

John gleefully sent a letter to Watson, along with a short note written by Fanny, informing him of their cancelled engagement. All of Milton was soon humming with the news, the gossipmongers twisting and exaggerating the facts, as usual. In this case, it worked in the Thorntons favor. The story that was bandied about was that Watson – a dreadful old rake – had tried to seduce innocent Fanny away from the bosom of her family. John had, rightly so, refused the match and sent his sister away to his wife's people in London so that she might be safe.

Watson's reputation was damaged enormously in the debacle, and any attempt on his part to share his side of the story only fueled the belief that he was ungentlemanly. Margaret had worried that John's business would be affected by his severing the acquaintance with Watson, but he assured her that it would not be so; the two of them had never been good friends and had no business ties to affect the matter.

Fanny and Margaret's relationship also improved. Fanny wrote to her many times during her absence, detailing with delight all the wonderful things she was up to; and, surprisingly, thanking Margaret for arranging the visit.

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*Authors note: the section on Fanny was great fun to write. I always thought Fanny got the worst end of the stick, so I'm going to write her a much better ending.


	33. Chapter 31

A/N 1: I read through the fight scene again, and I see the point; it was a little out of character. People say dumb things in a fight, especially when angry. I wanted the fight to be about how John reacts when his authority is challenged, as it never has been before he met Margaret. They also need to learn how to argue as a couple; rudely shouting at each other and then running off is not a good way to deal with it. But perhaps I missed the mark.

I will keep your reviews in mind for future chapters. Thank you all for your input, please keep up the advice so that I can learn from it, that's exactly the kind of feedback I want.

Keep up the reviews, I love each and every one of them!

A/N 2: Sorry too for the single chapter update, my week has been insanely busy and I didn't have much time to write. But this chapter is full of drama so hopefully that'll make up for it!

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Chapter 31

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream"

Despite the Exhibition ending in mid October, the influx of orders in Milton didn't let up. Money poured into the city; some places more than others – Marlborough Mill one of them – but everyone's lives were improved by the public's increased interest in industry. Contacts were plentiful, and so hours and wages increased. Milton was busier than ever.

Papa's life took another interesting turn. Mr. Cartwright, the owner of the iron refinery, had died and left his fortune and his house in Salford in a bequest to use the endowments for a tertiary college. The executors of the will spent months setting up the college and in October, asked Papa to be one of the professors; many of his pupils electing to attend the college.

Papa was overjoyed by this, and Mama was also pleased that their income would be increased once the school began in the New Year. It was only a small school, but most of the students were well known to him and Papa would thrive. He was saddened that he would be unable to continue his lessons with John at the pace he did now, and so came to the manor often to debate enthusiastically with John over any number of topics, before his new schedule took up all his time.

Fanny too, saw wonderful changes in her life and adored everything about London.

"Another letter from Fanny," said John, giving it to Margaret to read. "I wonder when she has time to experience any of the things she says she's doing, with how often she writes."

Margaret grinned, happy that Fanny was so excited. She read through the letter, it mostly being a list of all the things Fanny had seen, the new people she'd met and the shops she'd visited. Edith must've been vastly pleased to have someone who loved to experience the same things she did.

"And a possible beau?" observed Margaret amusedly, reading the final sentences.

"Aye, I'm not sure what to make of that. It seems a little early to be sure to me."

"Edith is sensible, mostly. She'll keep Fanny from doing anything truly alarming," Margaret assured Mother and John. "London men will suit her far better than ones here. She'll be able to spend her time dancing and playing piano for them. They'll be falling at her feet."

"Good; she deserves to worshipped," replied John.

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Margret also began making preparations for John's upcoming birthday. Mother had told her that large birthday celebrations weren't common in their family, and so close to the September dinner party and Christmas, John wouldn't want the bother of another round of guests in the house.

But she did want to get him some gifts. She racked her brain for days trying to come up with the perfect idea. She thought a ring would be an excellent gift, since she loved the two he had given her. Margaret settled on a plain gold one with a small auburn jewel pressed into it that had two tiny diamonds on either side; both their birthstones entwined together.

The idea for his other gift came to her when she saw a bunch of puppies for sale outside the ironmonger. She remembered that John had a dog when he was young, and he had spoken of the memory with such joy. She excitedly told Mother of the idea, and she agreed readily enough. Margaret asked her friends and acquaintances if they had heard of any puppies for sale around Milton. The ones that the ironmonger had were rather cute, but not the right breed for a mill.

Miss White in the Ladies Aid told Margaret that one of her neighbors had a litter of older puppies he was looking to find homes for. Margaret took the carriage to the address and inquired after the dogs and the man happily took her around to the stables to show them off.

It was a litter of deerhounds, all of them just under a year old. They gamboled about her, barking excitedly. A more stoic one hanging back caught her eye. He was rather skinny, with long wiry hair. He had a battle-hardened look to him; but when Margaret tentatively reached out to pet him, he relaxed under her touch. He wound himself around her legs in an effort to elicit more pats from her. Margaret laughed.

"He's perfect."

"Aye, he's a sweet-natured one," the man agreed, "and as gentle as a lamb." He also agreed to keep the dog for another week, as Margaret would be unable to hide him anywhere in the mill without John finding out.

But she was rather bad at keeping secrets from her husband anyway. John saw her amused smile whenever she looked at him.

"What are you planning?" he asked suspiciously, the two of them reading in the library together.

"Nothing," Margaret insisted, lifting her book up higher to hide her grin.

"You're hiding something from me, I know it."

"I'm not."

"Tell me!" he demanded, playfully stealing her book away from her.

"It's a surprise for your birthday. Stop asking, for heaven's sake, or I'll give in and tell you."

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The day before John's birthday, Margaret snuck the dog into the stable and asked Urquhart to hide him away for tonight, then bring him into the kitchen in the morning.

The next day was shockingly cold. Margaret was awakened by the sound of Jane accidently dropping the poker on the floor when she came in to tend to the smoldering fire. After she left, Margaret snuggled herself closer to John, breathing in the scent of him. He pulled her closer in search of warmth.

"Happy birthday, darling," she whispered, kissing his shoulder.

"Mmm. Thank you," he murmured sleepily. "A vast improvement on my last birthday."

"Thirty today. You're positively ancient," Margaret teased.

"Ouch. Come here; I'll show you how ancient I am."

Margaret laughed as John wrapped his arms around her and showered her with kisses, rolling to tuck her beneath him.

"You should feel very proud of all you've achieved in your life so far," she told him admiringly, holding his jaw to halt his attentions. "You've done such amazing things, helped so many people. I think you're just brilliant."

"God, I wouldn't mind hearing that kind of praise every day," he said, grinning at her.

"It's true every day, but I'll only say it on important occasions. Can't let you get _too_ arrogant."

John laughed. "People usually think that already."

"Because they don't know you like I do."

His gaze softened and he kissed her sweetly. "Aye, only you. Is that odd for you? To see me one way in public and another when it's just us?"

"Not very," smiled Margaret. "It's not as though you behave as two separate people. And I do like that I'm the one you are most comfortable with, as that's how I feel with you."

John sighed at her words, kissing her deeply. He pushed his hips into hers, his hand drifting down between their bodies. Margaret kissed him hard, using the momentum to direct him onto his back. Under the covers, she curled her body over his, but shifted further up before they both got too lost in each other.

"We'll have to save that for tonight," she said against his lips. "I've a marvelous day planned for you and it begins at breakfast."

"I don't want breakfast," he mumbled, pulling her in for kiss.

"Not even raspberry tart?"

"No," he growled, trying to kiss her again. Margaret sat up out of his reach.

"I can't believe you; after I worked so hard on them. I had to go _all_ the way down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Roberts to put them in the menu," she pouted jestingly.

"I'll apologize later. Kiss me."

"You don't even want to see the presents I got you?"

That got his attention. "You got me more than one gift? Does Mother know that you broke her rule?"

"Not yet. She knows about one of them, but not the other. I'll give that to you privately later. And your _other_ gift, which is going to be given _very_ privately."

"That's not fair," he complained. "You can't say something like that and expect me to now go down to breakfast."

"Poor you; three gifts, raspberry tarts and a loving wife who did all that for you. Come on, get up." Margaret slid off his body and stood up, pulling him to his feet as well. John grumbled good-naturedly, but did reluctantly begin to get dressed.

They walked arm in arm down to the breakfast room, all of John's favourite foods laid out on the sideboard. Mother came in soon after and wished her son happy birthday, an amused look in her eye. Another letter from Fanny arrived with the post, also expressing her good wishes to John. At the conclusion of breakfast, Margaret leapt to her feet.

"Stay here; I'm going to go and get your present." Margaret rushed down to the kitchen where Urquhart was waiting, the puppy in his arms.

"Thank you, Urquhart. Mr. Thornton will be very pleased."

"Aye, ma'am. He's a lovely one."

Margaret coaxed the dog to follow her up the stairs with bits of bacon. His nails clicked quickly on the wooden floors, his tail wagging madly. Drawn in by the sounds of other people or by the smell of food Margaret couldn't tell, but the dog soon overtook her and bounced into the room, weaving excitedly though the tables and chairs and John's legs.

"Margaret, you didn't," chuckled John, kneeling down to scratch the dog behind the ears.

"I did," she laughed.

"Does he have a name?" asked Mother, also petting the dog when he brushed past her.

"The man I bought him from called him Gus, but I don't suppose we have to keep it. He's young enough to learn a new name, I think."

"No, Gus suits him well," John snorted.

At eleven, Margaret and John bundled up in their warm clothes and hiked to the pond to go ice skating. Margaret had improved since last winter and they were soon racing each other around the pond, obstructing each other as often as possible. They abandoned their skates and built a snowman along the banks, John doubling up laughing when she fell into their first attempt, accidently breaking the snowman in half.

"This is one of the only activities where building it is far more fun than viewing the finished product," she mused, clumsily trying to put the carrot nose into his face.

"Which is good since you keep forcing us to start again," sniggered John.

"Maybe if you would be more helpful instead of laughing at me!"

"You make it too easy."

Margaret scooped up a handful of snow and made to throw it at him but missed as he'd already darted out of her line of fire. His missile was far more accurate, hitting her square in the face. Margaret was further disadvantaged by her skirts which made running through snow almost impossible. She squealed when snow disappeared beneath her collar, pushing John to the ground in retaliation. He grabbed her hand when she tried to get away and pulled her down next to him. Margaret half fell on him with a huff of laughter.

'Thirty years old and you still act like a child."

"You started it."

"Did not."

John laughed and sat up straighter, kissing her. Margaret was hardly able to feel anything but his lips on hers, the rest of her too numb with cold.

"Thank you," said John, breathless. "For bringing light and laughter into my life."

"The day's not over yet," she said, grinning widely. "We've still got coffee and dinner. Oh! And your other gift."

"What, right here? That's a little brazen, even for you," he quipped, deliberately misunderstanding.

"Oh, hush. Here."

Margaret felt in her pocket for the ring box and balanced it on his knee. John picked it up reverently, holding it in his hand for a moment before slowly lifting the lid.

"Our birthstones," Margaret told him softly.

'Aye," he replied, smiling. He slid the ring on to his left ring finger. "Though I'd always thought they should be the other way around. You are the one who is warm and friendly, and I'm the one who is cold."

Margaret laughed. "I think they're perfect. They're balance, just as we are. And we can add more gems to it, the jeweler said, for the additional members of our family."

Something in her easy tone must have sounded off to him, for John suddenly looked at her sharply. "Will that be… needed soon?"

"Not quite yet."

John looked at her with the same expression she was sure was on her face. Relief, as they didn't want that yet, but also disappointment that it wasn't so.

"How about we talk about it every six months?" she proposed. "If it doesn't happen before that, of course. Then we can decide."

"Aye, that sounds like a good plan. It still feels like we're on a honeymoon of sorts, even though we're back here. Especially on a day like today."

"Yes," she agreed. "I don't know what the sign will be when I feel… more prepared, but I agree that it doesn't feel right yet."

"Does anyone ever feel prepared?" he asked, chuckling.

"Those that have others to care for their children," Margaret joked.

John grinned. He stood up, giving her his hand to help her to her feet. As soon as she was upright, John pulled her into his embrace and caught her mouth in a bruising kiss. "Lead the way, then."

The coffee shop was full of people, including Miss Thomas from the Ladies Aid, and her beau, who came over to chat with her and John. The man was a little too pompous for Margaret's liking but Miss Thomas seemed genuinely amused by his comments. She gave Margaret an exaggerated look of glee behind his back as the couple left.

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After the elaborate dinner, Margaret joined John in their bedroom. He was smirking with anticipation at her promise of a private gift. She blushed furiously.

"I didn't have anything particular in mind," she admitted, moving to sit on his lap. "I was half joking. I'm afraid I've used up my stock of the scandalous when I imitated Venus."

"You are enough," he assured her, kissing her deeply. He pulled her tight against him, both of them rocking slowly against each other. Margaret broke the kiss and pulled her nightgown over her head, flinging it to the floor. John ran his tongue over her breasts and up to her neck, biting at her skin.

"There is something I want to try, now I think of it," he murmured, pulling away to look at her. "Something I had a dream about once."

Margaret waited with bated breath, her skin flushed with anticipation. John stared at her intently, then took her hand, guiding their overlapped fingers down her chest to her core.

"I dreamt that… I was watching you… just you, using your own hands," he breathed. Margaret sucked in a sharp breath, closing her eyes at the shiver of pleasure that ran through her. John drew their hands further down, pressing the tips of his fingers inside her, before pulling back and letting her hand replace his. It felt almost as good as when he did it, and she tried to mimic the movements he made when he touched her this way.

John was panting heavily, watching her. He kissed her, gliding his tongue against her lips.

"I want to see you too," she whispered. John groaned at her words. He was aroused by this, watching this tantalizing new way of pleasuring each other. He moved closer to her and took himself in hand. By mutual agreement, they didn't touch, other than hovering their legs against each others; their bodies only a breath apart. Having their partner so near and yet so far, added to the erotic nature of it, until they were pushing themselves higher, their wild pants of lust almost in sync. John fell apart first. Margaret threw back her head and gasped at the sight, fluttering her fingers against her core until she too came apart with a throaty cry. John kissed her again, guiding them both to lay back on the mattress. He settled his body atop hers, his warm weight wonderfully comforting.

"Thank you, my love," he said, smiling against her skin, "for my very marvelous birthday."

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Late one Sunday night, Margaret was preparing jimsonweed sachets in infirmary ward. The unusually cold winter had lead to an increase in patients with breathing complaints. Eleven in the infirmary ward alone were racked with coughing fits; Mr. Jenkins and the nursing sisters ran ragged trying to keep up with the treatments for each patient. Margaret had been at the hospital all afternoon and evening doing as much as she could to assist them.

The workers at Marlborough Mill were also feeling the negative effects of the season. Fires couldn't be lit in the mill anywhere other than the spinning rooms, and so the majority of the workers were bitterly cold. John extended their break by an extra five minutes, allowing the hands to warm themselves in the mess hall, and the cook now made rounds with hot tea in tin mugs.

Margaret discovered that John had a particular dislike of being cold. He made sure that the fires in the manor were always tended to, and he sought the warmth of her body next to his, even in his sleep. This winter seemed colder than the last she had spent in Milton, so Margaret was also happy to have the press of another person so close to her.

"Here! Here, someone help him!"

Fred's panicked shout made Margaret look up in confusion. Fred was half carrying a thin young man who was leaning against him listlessly. Mr. Jenkins rushed over and took the man's feet, he and Fred lifting the insensible man to the closest bed.

"What happened?" asked Margaret anxiously, also rushing over to her brother.

"I saw him slip over on the ice, falling down the steps. He hit his head."

Mr. Jenkins gently rolled the man away from him and all three of them made identical noises of shock. There was a huge gash at the back of his head, blood and hair matted into the injury. His skull was clearly split, as if with an axe; blood pouring from the wound. Mr. Jenkins moved to check the man was breathing.

"The wound cannot be repaired in time, I fear." Even as Mr. Jenkins spoke, the man gave a strange groan and began to convulse. His muscles went rigid and he splayed about; his eyes rolling back in his head. His face took on a frightening bluish tinge as he struggled to draw breath. Bright crimson blood poured out of his mouth and nose until the man stilled, his body slackening back to the bed; his eyelids still half open, showing his suddenly vacant stare.

The three of them could only watch in horror; the whole incident over in a matter of minutes.

Mr. Jenkins sighed heavily. He gently brushed his hand down the man's face, closing his eyes, then pulled the sheet up to cover the body. He spoke softly to Margaret, no doubt telling her about the arrangements that needed to be made to bury the man, but Margaret could only nod numbly.

That had been horrifying. She'd seen death before, but not like this; this bloody and violent scene, a life snuffed out right before her eyes.

Margaret was also alarmed by the look on Fred's face. He was ashen, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. She took his arm and pulled him into the doorway, away from the body. He barely noticed her efforts, simply letting himself be propelled along. He smelt of blood and drink. Closer to the light, Margaret could see the beginning of another expression on Fred's face, one that made her sick to her stomach – a look of guilt.

"Fred… what happened?" she whispered, gripping his arm tightly.

Fred took a deep shuddering breath. "I don't know – I don't remember… We got into a fight. I followed him outside when he left the pub… I – I was angry, angrier than I've ever been. I don't know why. All I could hear was his stupid voice; just _grating_ on me. I can't remember what the fight was about. I – I…"

"Did you cut him?"

"No! No, I swear, I used no weapon on him! I hit him, or pushed him maybe, and he fell down the stone steps. I swear, I didn't mean to hurt him that bad… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Margaret took Fred's arm and pulled him along beside her, back to the manor. She wanted to get him away from everyone, before they heard what he had said. It was a struggle; the snow fierce and Fred drunk. He began to behave very oddly. He rambled continuously, telling her over again that he didn't mean it. He then seemed to forget where they were going and tried to enter a shop, intent on buying more liquor.

"No, we're going to the mill, Fred. I'm taking you home."

"Home – I don't live there. I don't live here, in London, I think. You've been to London: you know where I live. Are we going to the train station? I'm to agitated to sit down, I don't want to go on a train ride –"

"We're not. I'm walking you to the mill, where I live," Margaret told him, scared and confused by his rambling.

"There was a man in the pub who only had one arm, from the mill, fell in when he was little, how do you fall in? Just stay out of the way, it's easy, was it in your mill? I didn't think you had a mill, I thought it was John's, he's a mean looking fellow isn't he, just frowning all the time, he's going to be so mad when he sees you, all bloody and drunk…"

Fred continued his tirade, Margaret struggling in vain to herd him in the right direction, her hands aching with the effort of gripping his arm to pull him along. Fred was strong despite his inebriation and accidently knocked her to the ground without noticing. Margaret leapt back to her feet, ignoring her stinging hands and raced after him as he turned down the wrong street.

It felt like pushing against a brick wall; Fred digging in his heels, then suddenly lurching forward and leading the way while she tried in vain to keep up with him. There was no one outside who she might ask for help, and the falling snow was making it almost impossible to see where they were going.

After what seemed like hours, they arrived at the mill gates. Margaret almost wept with relief, but Fred's odd behavior didn't let up. He was still ranting, talking about a card game. He wasn't paying attention to his feet and tripped over the lip in the stone archway, bringing Margaret down with him. She tried to catch herself but her arms were tangled with his and she hit the ground hard. Blood filled her mouth as she bit her lip; she spat it on the ground, some of it dribbling down her chin.

Fred laughed manically. "You look like a vampire, pale and bloody, why didn't you tell me, would've been useful, we could've –"

"Stop it, please," Margaret begged. "Stand up, we have to get inside."

The command got his attention and he shot to his feet, almost yanking her arm off as she had gripped his upper arm to help him up. He half ran to the mill, still babbling about vampires, leaving Margaret sprawled on the icy cobblestones. She stood up and hurried after him, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. What was wrong with him?

Fred threw open the front door with such force that it crashed into the wall behind it.

"Shh, be quiet! Mother is in bed –"

"What Mother, not my mother, who are you talking about –"

"Fred, stop _talking_."

Margaret pushed him up the stairs toward the drawing room, thinking that if she could get him to sit down he'd be quieter. He seemed unable to control his speech, he just kept jabbering away. He was drunk but that wouldn't account for it. It was almost as if it was compulsion. His drunkenness did make his movements clumsier and when his wet boots slipped on the top step, he almost pitched them both down the stairs again.

"Fred, move, please! Just walk forward, one step in front of the other." Margaret elbowed him hard in the back, shoving him forward. Gus came sprinting on to the landing, barking madly at the potential intruders.

"What the hell is that, you're making an awful racket, sit, stay, go away, dog, why are you so loud…"

"My god, Margaret! What _happened_?"

John rushed to her side, also coming to investigate the racket the three of them were making. She knew they must look terrible; Both of them covered in blood, soaking wet and shivering. Margaret's hair had fallen loose and her hands and face were aching from her injuries. John frantically lifted Margaret's chin so he could inspect her split lip.

"I'm fine, it's Fred, something's really wrong with him –"

"I can't believe there's a dog, that'll be awful, and it's rather ugly, poor thing, Margaret, does he know you have a dog, awful, mean –"

"What's the matter with him?" asked John, alarmed.

"I don't know. Help me get him to the drawing room. I think he just needs to calm down; he's had a shock."

John steered Fred along the landing, surprised at the force Fred exerted trying to go a different way. He pinned Fred's arms to his sides and shoved him forcibly into the room. He tried to get him to sit on the sofa but Fred wasn't having it; he struggled to get away, blathering that he didn't live here. John clamped Fred's shoulder tightly, holding him down whenever he tried to move.

"Call him off, I didn't do it, I said I didn't, you believed me, I can't go back to prison, I didn't do it, you saw I didn't…" Fred got angrier, jerking wildly against John's restraining hold.

"Perhaps we should go for the doctor," John suggested, his brow furrowed in concern.

"We can't. Fred's done something terrible and he can't control what he's saying. He'll blurt it out to the doctor and then he'll be hanged," whispered Margaret frantically.

"Shut up, I said I didn't do it!" shouted Fred, confirming Margaret's assertion. "You saw, he died in the bed, not me, I didn't do nothing, it was you, you and that doctor, you didn't save him, it was you who killed him –"

Margaret slapped her hand over his mouth; he flung his head about trying to dislodge her. "See? It's like he's possessed! We have to keep him here until whatever this is has passed."

"Get some laudanum; that'll keep him quiet at least," said John.

"Yes, yes," replied Margaret distractedly, annoyed that she hadn't thought of it herself. She flew to the dresser where her medical box was kept and found the bottle. She hurried back to Fred, pouring out a measure of the liquid as she went.

"Here, drink this."

"No, nothing, I don't want it…"

"It's whiskey, it'll make you feel better."

Fred was appeased by the lie and threw back the laudanum. It took a while to take affect. When he slumped down in a daze, John slowly released him and stood up. He was panting slightly, Fred having been difficult to keep still. He and Margaret watched Fred with bated breath, until he passed out.

John retrieved the medical box and guided Margaret to the other sofa. She sat down heavily, exhausted from the ordeal. Now still, she became aware of her sore muscles and fluttering heart. She complied lethargically when John unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves to see her scraped palms. He poured some whiskey from the decanter into a cloth and gently pressed it into her wounds, looking at her in distress when she hissed in pain.

"I'm sorry, love. I'll be quick," he told her softly. He sponged away the blood carefully. He poured some more on a clean corner of the cloth and patted it gently against her lip and chin. "Did Fred hit you?"

"No. We fell over a lot though. He was drunk and couldn't walk properly. But he also kept flailing about uncontrollably, like his talking. I could barely get him home."

John stilled his movements, his expression grave. "Did he really kill someone?"

Margaret started to weep; exhausted and scared. "Yes," she said miserably. ""He told me so himself. He got into a fight with a man, they were both drunk, I think, and… Fred, he… he shoved him and the man slipped and hit his head. Fred brought him to the hospital. He lied to Mr. Jenkins and told him he found the man on the street. But then the man died and… Fred told me the truth."

"Did Mr. Jenkins hear what Fred told you?"

"No, we were alone when he told me. And when he was ranting on the way home… I don't think anyone would've heard that either. It was too late and the storm was loud. It was an accident, but Fred would have a hard time proving that. And he did intend to harm him, just not that severely."

"Aye. If he's tried, he'll likely be hanged… or get life imprisonment if the Assizes Court is sympathetic."

"Oh god…"

John wrapped his arms around her while she cried into his shoulder. She was numb with shock and cold. Her darling Fred might be sentenced to death, all because he couldn't control himself.

"There's something wrong with his mind, especially tonight. He wasn't himself. Might they lessen it if he's proved to be of unsound mind?" asked Margaret tearfully.

"I don't believe so," replied John grimly. "Fred has a clear record of having done things of this nature before. When they discover it, they won't believe this was a random act of mindlessness; they will see it as a pattern of violence."

Margaret cried harder at that pronouncement. John pulled her close, pressing his lips to her hair. "Can nothing be done? He doesn't deserve to die for this."

"And the other man? Does he and his family get no justice?" There was no infliction in John's words. He wasn't trying to be cruel, only pragmatic.

"Oh John. I know that's true, but I don't want logic right now. I want to scream and cry at the _unfairness_ of it all." Margaret did cry, for a long time, John rocking her gently to soothe her. Finally, there was nothing left in her. John carried her up to their room carefully, so as to not wake Mother. He peeled off her filthy clothes and helped her into bed. Margaret fell asleep before he even left the room.

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John's mind was spinning in circles. This night had been a disaster. He'd been waiting in the drawing room for Margaret, becoming a little concerned by the later hour and why she wasn't home from the hospital yet. Margaret had sent a message home telling him that she was going to stay late, but by ten o'clock, he had begun to worry, his mind conjuring up all kinds of frightful scenarios. He'd been debating on whether to go out and search for her. When she and Fred fell on to the landing and he saw that she was covered in blood and bruises, his heart almost gave out.

Her explanation for her injuries did nothing to pacify him. Fred's erratic behavior frightened him. He had been babbling incoherently and fought against John's hold with great force. Even sedated by the laudanum, he still looked agitated.

After putting Margaret to bed, John returned to the drawing room and heaved Fred into his arms, carrying him up to the guest room. He stripped off his wet outerwear and cleaned the blood from his hands and face. Fred jerked about sporadically, but didn't wake.

John wondered what would happen now. Fred had committed murder. Unintentionally, but the damage was still there. He knew what he _ought_ to do, as a magistrate, which was report the confession and have Fred detained for trial. But he didn't want to do that do his brother-in-law, his friend Mr. Hale, and especially not to Margaret.

But what if Fred never came out of this delusional state? Or what if it happened again? Then John would be condemning another man to die.

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In the morning, he and Margaret woke, neither having slept peacefully. John quietly told her about his misgivings. Margaret too was conflicted; she wanted to do the right thing, but couldn't bring herself to condemn her own brother. John sent a short note to Mr. Hale, explaining that Fred had spent the night at the manor and would stay for a few days at Margaret's request. Mother was confused by Margaret and John's tension. John told her he Fred was staying for a few days, sleeping off drink, but didn't elaborate.

Up in the guest room, Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and took Fred's hand. Fred woke soon after, the laudanum having worn off. He opened his eyes and stared at Margaret and John, his eyes empty. They waited anxiously, but he didn't move or speak. Whatever that had been yesterday seemed to have run its course.

"Fred?" Margaret whispered. "Do you know where you are?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what happened?"

Fred flicked his gaze to his sister, Margaret starting slightly at the hollowness there. "Yes," he said softly.

"Can you tell us anything more?" asked John. "What caused it?"

"I don't know… I've felt it before, but not as strong. Everything was amplified until all I could hear was noise – his voice – that was making me so irritated. I just wanted him to stop talking to me… but I don't know why I followed him when he left."

"He didn't provoke you in some way? He didn't attack you first?" asked John.

"No, I followed him. All I could hear was his voice," Fred repeated.

"How do you feel now?" asked Margaret worriedly.

"Dead."

"You're not going to die, Fred. We'll help you; get you a lawyer –"

"No, you asked me how I felt. I feel like I'm dead. Hollow. Empty. Please, go away and let me sleep."

"Alright," said Margaret softly, tearing up again. "We'll leave you to rest. There's a tray of food there if you want it."

Fred pulled his hand out of Margaret's grip and turned away from them both. John found Fred's apathy strange. He'd been sad before, but not this monotone carelessness that he exhibited now. John reasoned that he was feeling guilt over his behavior. It seemed that both of Fred's extremes in personality had been heightened over the past two days. Why, he couldn't say.

"What happens now?" Margaret whispered, once the two of them were back on the landing.

"I'm not sure. He can't argue that he was simply defending himself, since he said that he followed the man outside. And the man apparently didn't do anything other than speak to him."

"That's rather odd, that his voice caused Fred to get angry? I've never heard of that before. He also didn't like it when we spoke to him either. I thought it was because he didn't like what we were saying, but maybe it was the noise he objected to."

"Aye," John frowned. "I've never seen anything like this before. But we should let him stay for a while, to see if her recovers like he has before."

"He killed a man. I don't think he will recover," said Margaret sorrowfully.

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Fred didn't recover, not to his previous state. He remained impassive. He understood when spoken to and did as he was told, but there was no life to him.

His was a look was one John was very familiar with. A hollowness pressing on your chest, until you could think of nothing else. Margaret tired in vain to get Fred to talk to her, but he wouldn't. Instead, he spent all his time sleeping, or staring at the wall listlessly.

Two days later, John was summoned to the coroner's office to view the body of the murdered man. Inspector Mason pulled back the sheet, revealing a thin young man. Head injury aside, John could see that the man had been in very poor health. He was malnourished, his teeth missing or broken. His skin had an odd pall, similar to those John had seen who had died of drink.

"Have you learnt who he is?" John asked Mason.

"His name is Leonards. He's newly arrived in Milton, only a few weeks ago. I've interviewed proprietors and patrons of several public houses, and a few recognized his description. He seems to have spent quite a bit of time frequenting those places. The coroner reported that he had some internal complaint as a result of hard drinking, but we've ordered an inquest into the death, as his injury suggests a violent end."

"Other than the head injury, what about his condition suggests violence?" John asked, carefully keeping his voice even.

"Not much, actually. There's no other wounds. Nothing to indicate he was in a brawl recently. My investigation at the public houses revealed that the man left without incident on the day of his death."

John gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Fred's assertion that Leonards had spoken to him in an impertinent way seemed to be only in his head. John was not surprised; Fred had already displayed that tendency – exaggerating things in his mind until he was certain they were truth.

"He was brought in from the charity hospital?" John inquired, wanting to see how far Mason's investigation had gotten.

"Yes, he died there. The proprietor, Mr. Jenkins said that another young man brought him in, stating it was an accident; that the man slipped in the street."

"You don't believe that?" asked John apprehensively.

"I'm not sure, sir. One would hate to contest the word of a doctor but the wound does seem to be too severe to suggest a fall."

"I've seen a similar injury before that was the result of a fall," John disagreed, truthfully. "It was smaller, but the man still bled to death as a result."

"Aye, perhaps so. We will still investigate, so that justice may be achieved."

"Of course."

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Back at the manor, John told Margaret what had happened. He hadn't told Mason that he had the confession of the man that killed Leonards. John was going to try and save Fred's life.

"I don't think there's enough evidence to prosecute, not without Fred's confession. Accidents like this happen often and are found to not be the fault of others," John explained.

"But what if the police ask to speak with me?" worried Margaret. "They will want to know what I saw. And I will have to tell them it was Fred who brought him in. Fred will confess, I think. He has no problem telling lies, but this is different."

John thought hard. Mason hadn't mentioned that Mr. Jenkins spoke of another witness to the death. That was likely because Mr. Jenkins was a medical professional, and gave his professional opinion on the death, not his suspicions of the truthfulness of Fred's story. Margaret was not a doctor, and it wouldn't have occurred to Mr. Jenkins to back up his opinion with the word of a layman volunteer; Margaret having nothing to contribute as to the cause of death. It was also unlikely that Mr. Jenkins knew that Margaret and Fred were related. They had left the hospital together, but Mr. Jenkins probably hadn't noticed that; Margaret had said the ward was incredibly busy that night. But Mason might go back and speak to Mr. Jenkins or the patients, and he'd connect the dots. Mason had shown himself to be dedicated to his profession; that would not work in Fred's favor.

John didn't want Fred to be put to death for this. And even if he was spared the noose, if he didn't pull himself out of his melancholy state, he might be deemed insane and condemned to a mental institution. There was clearly something wrong with him, but John knew Fred well enough to know he wasn't insane. He was controlled by his moods and impulses, but he was capable of logical thought. The court would not see it that way, however.

"I will make sure that they don't speak with you or Fred. I will rule the death as an accident," said John heavily. "There will be no further investigation."

"No, John!" Margaret cried, seizing his shirt. "You cannot do that! If anyone finds out, your reputation would be ruined! Everyone knows we are married; Mason will guess that you lied to save my brother. You'd lose _everything_! John, you cannot do this."

John took her hands and kissed them swiftly. "It won't be a lie, only an omission," he assured her gently. "I didn't lie when I said there isn't enough physical evidence to prosecute for murder. I've presided over deaths like this before – ones that were the result of accidents. We'll act as if Fred did not confess."

"People will find out," Margaret said in a horrified whisper.

"No one was here when he confessed, only you and I. Everyone else in the manor was asleep."

"What if someone reports that they saw Fred and I walking home together? He was behaving so strangely; people are bound to remember that."

"It was nearly half ten when you got home, and snowing heavily. Most people would've been inside. And even if they could see you in the darkness, it would've looked as though Fred was drunk and you were helping him home. Again, not an untruth."

John was uncomfortable with using his position to conceal a crime, when others in a similar situation had no such opportunity. But he couldn't let Margaret suffer; her happiness trumped everything else. He was also confident that there would be no negative repercussions for himself or his family. Leonards was new the the area, and had the air of a vagabond about him. John loathed to admit it, but that would mean that very few people would bother with investigating his death further. Prisons were already bursting with people and the police had their hands full. If a crime could be dealt with quickly, they would think nothing more about it.

Margaret made a pained noise and buried her face in his chest. "I can't let you do that. But I also can't let Fred be killed. What a terrible choice."

"It is my choice, my darling. I will fix this, and I'll help Fred. Everything will be fine," he vowed.

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Sitting in Fred's room the next day, Margaret quietly told him what John had done.

"He's ruled the death as accident. 'Death by misadventure'. So you will not hang for this. Only the three of us know the truth. Please don't repeat it, Fred. John would lose everything if it became known that he withheld information this way," Margaret pleaded.

"I'll stay silent. I owe him my life, it seems. Confessing to another would be a poor way to repay him."

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I know it's a huge thing, and for John and I too. But he did it to save your life, not to be unjust in his power."

"I don't deserve his mercy."

"It _was_ an accident. You didn't mean to hurt him that badly," said Margaret imploringly. Nothing she said seemed to pull him from his sad state. This was the longest he'd ever gone without bouncing back, and that frightened her.

"No. It seems like like I exist solely to cause people pain, even those I love," he said wretchedly.

"That's not true. We'll get through this, just like we've always done."

"Just like always."

The way Fred repeated her words, the way he seemed to stare at something only he could see, made Margaret suspicious. "What does that mean?"

"I always have to do this. Act out, then wallow in guilt. All of my own making."

"This has happened before? Fred!" Margaret choked out.

"I don't know for sure. It wasn't like this time; I was just drunk then. I'm sure he got up fine. But I was too foxed to remember with any certainty. It's why I left London and came here. To get away if it was true."

"My god… Fred…"

"I don't think anything bad happened. It doesn't feel like it does now. And no one ever came looking for me, no ads in the paper asking for information." Fred turned his ashen gaze to her. "I'm sorry I never told you."

"Never mind that. If you say nothing happened, I believe you," Margaret whispered dejectedly, her heart beating rapidly with this new confession.

Not wanting to alarm her parents, Margaret told them Fred was staying with them for the next few weeks. They thought it odd, but Fred never didn't anything predictable and so they weren't too confused by it. Fred's mood didn't lift. He visited Mama and Papa a few times, and answered his business letters, but other than that, he spent all his time in the library, reading or staring out into space.

Margaret was on tenterhooks about John's concealment. She kept imagining Mason coming around to continue the investigation, or Mr. Jenkins asking her pointed questions about that night. But after time passed with no change, Margaret cautiously began to relax. John had been right; no one had cared enough to investigate the death of a vagrant who had no friends or family. That also saddened her. She paid for Leonards burial anonymously, sparing him a pauper's funeral at least.

She talked with Fred often, about anything she thought would interest him, trying to help him work past the incident. They played cards and she read him his favourite poems. Margaret also got him involved in her plans for Christmas celebrations, her first with John as his wife. Fanny wrote again, telling the family that she would be home for Christmas, buoying everyone's spirits.

Fred did seem to perk up a little, perhaps glad to focus on something happy. Playing cards together in the drawing room one evening, Fred even laughed a little when she beat him handedly. He picked up the the deck of cards, shuffling them back into alignment.

"Here. I want you to have these," he said, handing them to her with a flourish. "They've bought me luck, some good, some bad. But you've far surpassed me in ability."

"Won't you want to keep them?" asked Margaret, bemused by the gesture.

"Nah, I think I ought to give it up, don't you? I think I've caused you two enough trouble in my life."

"You're not trouble," Margaret protested. "I've liked having you here; us having fun together like we used to when we were little."

Fred gave her a genuine smile. "You've done such wonderful things, Maggie. And I'm sure we haven't even seen the half of it. I know you'll do far greater things with your life than I did with mine."

Fred bid her good night softly, his hand lingering on hers when he stood up. Margaret was confused by his praise, especially as it seemed slightly off topic. Getting into bed with John that night, she told him about Fred's progress.

"He seems to be getting better. Not happier, exactly, but… less sad," sighed Margaret

"That's good to hear," said John warmly.

"Isn't it? He even gave me his playing cards, saying he was giving up gambling. That's a good sign, I think, shows he's growing – John?"

John had gone very still, freezing in the act of untying his cravat. "What did you just say?" he whispered, going pale.

"Fred gave me his cards, that deck of cards he carries around. What's wrong?"

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Just that I'd done great things with my life –"

"Where is he now?" John demanded in a panicked tone.

"He went to bed –"

"Oh, god…"

John threw open the door and pounded up the stairs to Fred's room, Margaret raced after him, confused by his fear. John opened the bedroom door quickly, but the room was empty, the bed neatly made. Almost tripping over his feet in his haste, John flung himself down the corridor to the wash room. He tore at the doorknob but it didn't give.

"Fred, are you in there? Open the door!"

There was no answer. John pounded frantically on the door, but there was still no sound. He drew back and kicked in the door, the lock splintering away from the wood from the force.

Fred was propped up against the side of the bathtub, a river of red running down from each wrist.

Margaret fell forward, launching herself towards him. His face was deathly white and he didn't respond when Margaret took his face in her hands.

"We have to stop the bleeding," she said through numb lips. She looked around for something to use, but John was ahead of her. He used his cravat to bind Fred's left wrist, having to wind it tightly up his arm to cover the long gash. The razor he'd used dangling limply from his fingers before John flung it aside. Margaret tore off a strip of cloth from the bottom of her nightgown and bound up Fred's other wrist. It looked as though he'd sliced through his left arm first, then clumsily tried to do the right, but not quite succeeding; the gash on his right arm was smaller and not bleeding as profusely.

Margaret tore off more strips, tying them securely. John kept his hands clamped tight around the worst one. She cupped Fred's jaw, streaking his skin with blood.

"You're going to be alright, Fred," she said frantically, shaking him slightly to get his attention. He didn't respond, but he was still breathing. Margaret could see his eyes moving beneath his lids, too lethargic to open them.

"I think the bleeding has let up," John said in a hushed tone. "Can you stitch up wounds like this?"

"I – yes, I think so." Margaret hurried down to the drawing room, bringing back her box and a candle. She did the smaller gash first, John keeping his hold on the other. "How did you know he would do this?" she asked in a pained whisper.

"My father… the Christmas before he died, he gave me his pocket watch, told me I'd use it better than he did. He was never without it. For him to give it to me was strange, but I didn't think of that at the time."

Tears filled Margaret's eyes and she had to blink hard in order to clear her vision. Thinking back to Fred's odd speech, she saw it for what it was – a goodbye.

She concentrated on her task, methodically sewing the flesh back together. She switched places with John so that she could tend to Fred's other wrist. John held the candle close so she could see. She snipped off the last suture and sat back on her heels. She felt like sobbing hysterically, but only sniffed and said; "We should get him to bed. You take him; I'll stay here and – clean."

John lifted Fred carefully, putting one of Fred's arms around his neck and maneuvering him back into his bedroom. Margaret tore her nightgown again, using the cotton and the water from the tap to mop up the blood. Once she'd finished, she gathered up all the soiled cloth and her supplies and went to check on Fred. John had undressed him down to his smallclothes and used alcohol to tend to the wounds; the sharp smell invading her senses.

Margaret threw the cloth into fire, then let John clean her bloody hands. John swiped at her skin meticulously, his expression full of pain. Margaret laced her fingers through his, halting his movements.

"You saved his life, darling. Thank you. Thank you." She stepped into his embrace, hugging him tightly. John was stiff for a moment then crushed her body to his. Margaret felt his shoulders tremble beneath her hands. She was certain he was crying soundlessly; thinking of his father, and of Fred, and every awful moment of the past two months.

"I didn't save him," he said hoarsely. Margaret pulled back slightly and put her hand to his cheek, brushing away the tears that gathered there.

"No, you didn't, but that wasn't your fault, John," she whispered imploringly. "He never gave you the chance to save him. But you saved Fred. I know that's not the same thing. But I'm… so grateful you did. You saved his life, again. Thank you, my love."

John gripped her waist so hard it was almost painful, but Margaret didn't pull away. She knew that John was trying to anchor himself again, drifting in a sea of pain and guilt, trying frantically to find himself. He took deep breaths and buried his face in her hair.

Oh, John. How were they going to fix this?


	34. Chapter 32

A/N: Beautiful reviews again! Thank you, thank you! And a huge thank you to all those who review regularly – you are who keep me motivated!

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Chapter 32

"Forever and forever farewell. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile. If not, why then this parting was well made"

When he slept, John dreamed of blood.

It was Fred dying, John too slow to save him. It was also Margaret, rivers of blood dribbling down her arms in a torrent, drowning them both.

He dreamed of his father; dead, unmoving. John had not seen his body; although he knew he hadn't used a blade, but a pistol. John had no image of what that death would've looked like, and so had nightmares about slits and blood instead.

He had trouble sleeping; it was only at Margaret's urging that he lay down at all. Most nights he spent staring at his wife, trying to hold himself here because it would devastate her if he left. Other nights he passed out exhausted, his terrible dreams the only thing to rouse him.

He and Margaret talked about it. He hadn't want to, thinking it would make it all worse if he had to relive it again as he spoke. Margaret didn't push him, she simply held him, murmuring words of comfort. But John soon found that he had starting talking without even realizing it.

"It was as though I had stopped moving, and everything else moved around me. I didn't interact with people; they spoke at me. Mother forced me to work and I did it without thinking. Things would happen and I wouldn't react to it. I look back now, and I think that's what saved me. So when I decided to change our life, this new fervor drove me because I couldn't think of anything else."

"You are far stronger than you think, love," Margaret whispered.

"It doesn't feel as it did before. Everything is different now. But it does scare me, feeling this way when I shouldn't."

John did feel different than last time, the darkness _there_ but not overriding. He was older, wiser; the good things in his life far surpassing his lingering guilt.

"Do you… did you imagine hurting yourself like Fred did?" asked Margaret softly.

John hugged her tighter. "No, it never occurred to me to leave my family after the way my father left us. I wasn't moving forward, but I didn't think to seek relief that way."

"You know it wasn't your fault, my love. You weren't there, you didn't know what the watch meant. You didn't know because he didn't _want_ you to know. He hid it from everyone."

"Aye," he replied softly. "I didn't know what to look for, because I didn't know what it was."

Margaret inched closer to him, taking his face in her hands. "But you do now. That knowledge helped you save someone else's life. That is worth a great deal, John."

He closed his eyes and leant against her, glad he'd been able to save Fred.

.

They had to tell Mother everything that had happened, unable to hide their distress from her. She was shocked but steadfast as always, which comforted him. He'd pull through this, just as he had before. Margaret, too, was greatly comforting. She was always there in the background, or in his arms. She never made him feel weak – this was simply another issue to work through and they would do it together.

Margaret didn't tell her parents. It would make them sick with worry and the incident had already passed. And, as Fred's wounds healed, so did he. His mood improved, approaching a degree of normalcy.

He and John talked as well, Fred thanking him for saving his life. He told John that his suicidal thoughts had been driven by his guilt and crushing despair, and that he'd never felt such a feeling before or since. John quietly told him that he too had suffered similarly when he was younger, but had worked hard to pull himself out of it. His explanation seemed to give Fred hope that he too might be able to help himself.

.

.

.

Every day, Margaret changed Fred's bandages and checked the wounds for inflammation, applying alcohol and medicinal poultices to them regularly. She and Fred talked over his symptoms, trying to find patterns to these extreme shifts. He told her that his fight with Leonards had been the most intense occurrence, but that he often felt his mood shift regularly and without much warning. Margaret quizzed him on all the things she could think of that might cause his mood to change. She asked him to write down how he felt every day, so they could try and track it.

His change in mood didn't usually follow the same pattern but they did discover that when he was upset and stressed, his mood worsened. Alcohol too, amplified whatever emotion he was feeling. He told her than when he was happiest, he did outlandish things – that usually being when he got into fights or gambled wildly.

Margaret reasoned that they needed to steady his moods somehow, try and make them less erratic. Fred stopped drinking and she got him to have a cup of chamomile tea every morning and night to see if that would bring about some measure of calm. She also researched other medicinal remedies and found that passionflower tisane could be used to reduce stress. Fred said this helped when he felt his heightened emotions, but not always.

He had another fit a few weeks after, where he spoke quickly and bounded all over the house, riling up Gus and getting in everyone's way. He disliked being spoken to, the noise amplified in his head. Margaret administered the passionflower but it didn't work this time; they had to wait for the fit to pass on its own. Fred wrote a lot during the fit, about whatever made sense to him.

After he calmed down, Margaret asked him what it felt like.

"Everything moving twice as fast. I feel like I can achieve anything I wanted… nothing is a bad idea. If I had a rational side, it'd probably be screaming at me from behind glass, telling me to slow down. Too bad I don't."

Margaret smiled, pleased that Fred was able to joke with her again.

"So you don't feel as… crazed as you did last time?" she asked tentatively. "This time, it seemed like you were having fun. Well, not fun, exactly, but… I wasn't scared for you this time. It was more as though you were just being a nuisance, like you always are."

Fred pondered the question. "You're right. It wasn't _enjoyable_ , but it was…. different. Now that I know what it feels like, I can control it a bit better. The first time I was so drunk and scared, I had no idea what I was doing. I could see that I was upsetting you, but whenever I tried to apologize it just came out wrong. But I think… it doesn't feel as consuming now. I have hold of it, rather than it having hold over me," he explained.

"And the sadness?" Margaret asked quietly. This scared her too. What if next time there was no one there to save him?

"I think… it won't be as bad again, as long as I don't provoke it with some devastating thing. If I can control the impulses, I can mediate the sadness, maybe. Besides, the sadness happens far less."

.

John also began to recover his spirits. Margaret had been alarmed by his dejection, terrified that he might do something similar. Some nights, neither of them slept, too absorbed in their dark thoughts. He did talk to her though, about how he felt. That soothed her, that he recognized it for what it was, and that he let her help him to find himself again.

She worried she wasn't doing enough, but he assured her that her presence in his life was what was keeping him steady. She was also concerned that she didn't understand how he felt. Margaret had never experienced such gripping unhappiness before. But she did know that if he left her, that would be the most heartbreaking thing. She held on to that, trying to put herself in his mind. Margaret tried to do what she thought would comfort her if she was in that situation, which was reassurance and touch. John did respond to both. He felt the darkness, but he let light into his life too, and that helped him to recover.

Fanny sent word that she would be arriving on the Thursday afternoon train, a week before Christmas. Fred had gone to Crampton for the evening but the Thorntons went to meet Fanny at the station. She exited the carriage gracefully, grinning widely at them all. To everyone's surprise, she embraced Margaret first.

"I had the most wonderful time! London is splendid, and I learnt so much," she gushed.

"Yes, I can see that," grinned Margaret. "You look very well."

Fanny's time away had helped her come into her own. Her gown was just as fashionable, but in a more pleasing, less brash style. She was wearing a touch of rouge and a face powder that suited her coloring perfectly. And she carried herself differently, more confidently. She directed the porter to unload her trunks; three of them, full to bursting.

She chatted happily to John and Mother about her trip, telling them how wonderful London was. She was a welcome diversion in the manor, piercing the tension that had shrouded the house. Her sunny demeanor helped everyone, reminding them all that there was still joy and fun to be had.

Fanny adored Gus (even though she thought him rather odd looking) and was glad to be with her family again. Over dinner, she drove the conversation. She'd clearly paid attention to Edith and her friends manners, as was able to mimic them in a way Margaret never could. Fanny was just as boisterous and still a little petulant, but in a pleasanter way, if such a thing could be said of those traits.

Mother objected to the use of cosmetics, but Margaret stuck up for Fanny, she too liking to use powder on special occasions.

Mother scowled at Margaret over the rim of her wine glass. "I didn't know you wore any."

"I think that rather proves my point, then. It's just a little fun."

"Many London ladies wear powder and rouge, Mother," said Fanny.

"John, what do you think of this?" Mother asked him, looking for an ally.

John paused, his eyebrow raised. "I don't care. They can wear whatever they want."

"But having a painted face is such a vulgar thing to do. Surely you object to your wife being so… forward," Mother frowned.

John quickly lifted his hand to his mouth, scrubbing his fingers against his lips to hide his sudden smile. With great effort, Margaret stopped herself from giggling.

When he felt he could compose himself, John said; "She and Fanny can wear what they like, it doesn't matter to me."

Later, when they were alone in the drawing room, Margaret and John laughed over the incident, the first time they'd laughed in a long while.

"I thought I was going to pass out from embarrassment," groaned Margaret.

"Aye," he grinned. "If only they knew how bold you really are."

"Shh!" she said, flapping her hand at him. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. John rested his forehead on hers and smiled gently.

"I needed that, to laugh again. And you've been wonderful through all of this."

"I feel like I haven't done anything," she admitted. "I don't know if I've even been doing the right thing, for you and Fred both. I feel like all I've been doing is ordering him around."

"He needs a bit of that, I think. Some stability. As for me…" He kissed her soundly. "You are enough."

.

.

.

Christmas Day was a day of mixed feelings. By mutual agreement, no presents were exchanged – Fanny having shopped to her heart's content in London and the rest of the family not in the mood for such a ritual, deciding to focus on family instead. Mama and Papa spent the day at the manor, which pleased everyone. Fred's bandages and sutures had finally been removed and he was able to hide the jagged red lines beneath his sleeves. Fanny was also not told of the incident; John and Margaret wanting as few people to know as possible.

The preparations were a fun diversion; the servants hanging wreaths and garlands, wrapping them around the banisters. It snowed heavily for two days prior, making the place look beautifully picturesque. A huge tree was ordered and Fanny and Margaret had great fun decorating it, Fanny having brought some delightful glass ornaments with her back from London.

Fanny filled the drawing room with music, Fred seated beside her and turning the pages for her. Papa chatted happily with John. Mother came and sat next to Margaret.

"Everyone seems to have recovered their spirits," she said.

"Yes. It's almost as it was before. I've been watching John carefully, and we've been talking about it, when he wants to. He will always feel guilt, I think, but saving Fred… that helped him feel less so," replied Margaret softly.

"He was away so often in those days; it shouldn't have fallen to him to notice what was happening. Neither did I, really, until after it happened. My husband was brought very low by everything that had happened, but it never occurred to me that such an act would be a reaction to it. I'd never heard of it, except in those sensationalized stories in newspapers."

"Were you… there when it happened?" asked Margaret cautiously. John hadn't told her about the specifics of the day, his mother having not shared the details with him.

"No. Nor was I the one that discovered him; it was one of the maids. I returned home to find the police had already taken his body away. They wanted it to be kept quiet, for our sake, but the story got out anyway. People knew, and treated us accordingly. And when John became wealthy, their views changed once again. I'd never had much patience for society, and that only made me more avoidant."

Margaret too, disliked that. Gossip and negative talk had had such a poor impact on her family as well. Fred cared what others thought of him, but his compulsions drove him to act out; the whole thing worsened in a terrible cycle. But as she watched Fred now, he seemed more contented. He'd learnt there was a reason for it and that it was possible for him to control it.

Mother saw Margaret's gaze and guessed what she was thinking. "Your brother seems much improved as well."

"He is. I don't think the fits will stop though. But he's more optimistic about it," Margaret replied.

Over dinner, Fred made an announcement that startled everyone.

"I think… I think I ought to leave Milton for a time. England even. Travel again."

"Why?" asked Mama, looking sorrowful.

"I think I need a change of scene. I've more money now. I'll be able to manage my tenants via latters, with John and Margaret acting as intermediaries, perhaps."

Margaret regarded Fred sadly. It was a sudden announcement, but she understood what Fred's reasoning was. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the memories.

"Are you sure that you will be… alright on your own?" John asked him carefully.

Fred gave him a lopsided smile. "I'm sure I will. I've done a lot of introspection this winter and I've thought over my many mistakes. I understand myself far better now."

"Where will you go?" asked Papa disquietedly.

Fred was quiet for a long time. "Spain," he said slowly. "I've always wanted to. I think I need something completely different. I've never been and it will be an adventure."

"Well… if you're certain. And if you've thought it through. And you'll be able to come home and visit," said Margaret, reaching out to take his hand.

John's actions meant that Fred was free, and still able to return to England if he wanted. Fred was running, just as he had before, but it was different this time. This time, it was his choice.

"Of course. I'll have to come home for an English Christmas again, at least. And if I get sick of the heat," Fred grinned. "I'll not leave until January, so I can settle everything."

The rest of the meal was a pensive one. Mama and Papa were clearly upset by this declaration, and hadn't the knowledge of what prompted it. Fanny, likewise, was kept in ignorance and, still a little self-absorbed, didn't express anything beyond what excitement Fred would have abroad.

"What do you think of all this, Margaret?" asked Papa, he and Mama drawing her aside after dinner.

"I think it's the right thing for Fred to do. I think he'll enjoy himself. He'll have plenty of money to live on, and if John and I are acting as intermediaries, we'll be able to keep an eye on him."

"Don't you think it too sudden?" quavered Mama.

"He's lived abroad for years, Mama," Margaret reminded her. "And he's not fifteen anymore. He'll be fine."

For the first time, Margaret believed her own words. She was dismayed at losing her brother again, but this would be good for him. Even though it had been prompted by such a devastating event, Fred had matured a great deal over the past few months.

.

.

.

John too, thought Fred was right to leave. He needed to do something less stressful, and staying in Milton would not help him. He'd been watching Fred's progress closely and was contented by what he saw. Fred and Margaret had worked together to devise a system for him that worked fairly well, and was far better than what he'd been doing before. Fred would also learn more as he went along, and would be able to add this new information to his regime. John was worried that Fred might accidently do something terrible again, but Fred's confidence appeased him.

John himself was feeling much happier. The dreams were fading, the despair lessening. Like Fred's fits, John knew his own invading thoughts would never really go away. But the guilt he'd carried over his father's death had subsided somewhat. Because of his father, he'd been able to save another life. That wasn't a comforting feeling, exactly, but it was an encouraging one, and helped John work through it. And, while this Christmas hadn't been as jubilant as he had imagined it was going to be before all this, he was glad all his family was together, and the promise of being together in the future as well.

.

He received a letter shortly before the New Year, that also had the potential to bring more happiness into his family's life. It was from a Mr. Peter Harris, introducing himself to John and asking if he had John's permission to court Fanny. He appreciated the man's directness and consideration, though had a few misgivings over some of the things he stated. Fanny had spoken of him in her letters, but unlike her first experience with a proposal, had gone about it in the proper way. She'd written to them, explaining that she liked Mr. Harris enormously, and asked Mr. Harris to write to John for his approval as well.

John went through the mill to find Margaret, wanting to show her the letter. Gus, who'd taken to following him everywhere, trotted along beside him. He found Margaret in the mess hall and led her outside. They stood in the courtyard in the gently falling snow, John watching her expression closely for her thoughts. Fanny's last proposal had been a disaster for the two of them too, and he wanted their discussion on this one to go far better.

Margaret read through the letter carefully. "He sounds sincere. And I think Fanny truly likes him; she goes as red as anything whenever we bring up his name. I met him once, at Edith's wedding. He and the Captain went to Harrow together."

"Did you like him?"

"I didn't really form an opinion, to be honest."

"He states his assets in rather braggart manner, I thought," John frowned, unable to let that point pass, even though it was a contentious subject. Mr. Harris was fairly well set up, owning a moderate estate in Sussex that brought him a good income. John couldn't pretend that his occupation – or lack thereof – thrilled him, but it would be what Fanny would prefer, which was what mattered.

"There's no flowery way to say such a thing," Margaret disagreed. "He says it simply, in between two much warmer paragraphs. He wants you to consider him as a potential suitor. You are rich; he wants you to know that he is able to keep Fanny similarly. If he asked after her dowry, _that_ might've been off."

"Perhaps she's already told him. You told me."

"I don't think she would have. Edith's been coaching her through this. It's only after an engagement has been worked out between the families that such a thing is stated outright. I only did it that way because I had no dowry at the time, which is odd for someone of my position. Besides, it would've been apparent that Fanny comes from a wealthy family; a dowry is assumed. And he wrote to you at the mill, so he knows of her background," said Margaret carefully.

"Indicating that her class is not an issue for him," John continued, equally cautious.

"Perhaps he is in a similar position of new wealth," she mused. "He or his father could've bought the estate."

John nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. "I don't want to make a decision off a letter. I'll ask him for a visit, take the measure of him that way."

"Yes, I think that best. Though you must promise to be fair. I'll not have you sending him running in terror while you chase him with a pitchfork. Fanny's allowed to have suitors."

The odd mental picture and Margaret's severe scowl caused John to laugh loudly, dispersing the stiffness between them.

"When have I ever done that?" he snorted.

"It's been on your mind, I know it,' replied Margaret, grinning at him.

John sighed theatrically. "Very well. I'll be on my best behavior. I'll even smile at him."

"Heavens! We might as well ring the wedding bells already!"

"Oh, hush."

.

Mr. Harris was invited to the manor for the second week of January, and agreed readily. Fanny's behavior at that arrangement made John certain that Fanny did love – or at least have great affection for – Mr. Harris. That made John even more determined that Mr. Harris be the right candidate for his sister. Fanny would suffer more so than last time if something bad happened between the couple.

New Years Eve was a pleasanter affair than Christmas had been. The two families came together again, but John monopolized Margaret's attention, wanting the holiday to be special for them. Winter had a different meaning to him than it had in the past, that being when Margaret agreed to marry him and completely changed his life.

Traditionally, they were supposed to open the house for all their acquaintances to call on them after midnight, but the manor was rather too far removed from the wealthy neighborhood for the journey to be easy on foot. They did observe the custom of giving the servants the night off and gifts of new clothing.

A few moments before the clocks struck midnight, John turned to Margaret. "There's a belief that what one is doing at midnight on New Years Eve is what they continue to do for the rest of the year. I can think of only one thing I'd want to spend all year doing," he whispered, kissing her neck briefly.

Margaret blushed. "I'm afraid everyone will notice if we sneak away."

"I'll settle for a kiss, then. That's close enough."

She laughed and kissed him deeply, the two of them only breaking apart when everyone began exchanging regards for the New Year.

Alone in their room, the two of them undressed each other slowly, wanting to prolong the moment; the first time they'd been together for some months. John sank into her, groaning at the feeling. He slid his hands against her skin, linking his fingers through hers, raising them above her head. She wrapped her legs higher around his waist, pushing her hips against his, moaning softly.

"Are we alright?" he asked her gently, kissing her collarbone.

"Of course, darling," she sighed, opening her eyes to look lovingly at him. "We will be stronger for it."

.

.

.

"What time is Mr. Harris arriving today?" Margaret called to John from her dressing room.

"Five. I've asked Urquhart to fetch him."

"He's going to be rather nervous, I think, meeting us all at once like this."

"Good. If he's not nervous about making a good impression, then he's hiding something. I think it's good that he's coming here; he'll be bombarded with everything at once. See Milton, the mill, and the manor here in its walls. Give him an appreciation of Fanny's life."

"My god, don't say things like that in front of him, John, please."

"What's wrong with that? I want him thrown in the deep end."

"We're not trying to drown him, for heavens sake. We want him to like us."

"Maybe you do."

Margaret snorted. This banter had been going on between the two of them for a while now. It was much more fun than quarrelling seriously over the topic. She knew John would be more accommodating once Mr. Harris arrived. Like John, she had also thought Mr. Harris's letter oddly put, but she saw it as a him being nervous, rather than self-important. A letter was such an awkward way to introduce one's self to the family as a suitor. And if Mr. Harris had read anything in the papers about Marlborough Mill, that would also likely make him apprehensive – John and the mill were always spoken of as being hard-driving and rigidly moral, which might make a nervous visitor even more anxious.

Margaret spent the morning in the foundling home and visited the tenants, but returned earlier than usual to help Mother prepare for the visit. The servants had been ordered to give the manor a real going over, and Mrs. Roberts had planned an elaborate menu for the next four days.

Fred had to vacate the house to make room for Mr. Harris, but didn't mind. He was glad to spend time with Mama and Papa before he left for Spain.

Margaret invited Fanny up to her dressing room and Caoimhe helped the two of them get ready. Fanny was more nervous than Margaret had ever seen her; she kept touching her hair to check it was still in place, almost ruining her chignon.

"Everything will be fine, Fanny," said Margaret soothingly.

"John won't approve of him, I'm sure of it," she replied, biting her lip. "Mr. Harris is from a landed family, not a business one."

"Leave John to me. He'll be nice, I promise. It's not like before. You did everything properly this time around."

"Did you like him when you met him?"

"Yes," Margaret lied placating. "And I will again."

The sound of wheels on the cobblestones made Fanny give a little squeak of fright. She and Margaret peered through the round window to watch the carriage approach, before Fanny abruptly took several steps back.

"What if he looks up and sees me staring at him through the window?" she gasped.

"He'll think you're too eager, of course."

The panicked look of Fanny's face made Margaret realize that Fanny was in no mood for jests. She bit back a laugh and linked her arm through Fanny's.

"Come on, let's go down. You'll forget your nerves once the two of you start talking."

The two of them went down to the front door to formally greet Mr. Harris, John and Mother joining them. Hayden stood at attention at the side of the door, ready to take Mr. Harris's things.

"Welcome to Marlborough Mill, Mr. Harris," John greeted him.

"Thank you. Thank you for inviting me. It's just as Miss Thornton described it," replied Mr. Harris, his gaze darting quickly to Fanny and away again.

Margaret saw John look at him calculatingly and wondered what he thought of the man. She thought him rather handsome – his ashen blond hair was styled carefully and he had an easy smile. He dressed fashionably too; which Fanny would like about him. He was about John's age, which was a vast improvement on the last candidate.

"Mrs. Thornton, it's a pleasure to meet you again," said Mr. Harris, smiling at Margaret. "I'm glad that we are to have a connection – that is, I was pleased to hear from Charles that you are doing so well."

"I am, thank you," replied Margaret, amused by his nervous cover. "How did you enjoy London?"

"Very much. Edith and Charles are always very accommodating."

The party moved into the drawing room, the upper maid delivering the tea tray. Fanny chose the seat opposite her beau, then stiffened slightly, looking aghast that her actions might have been seen as unfriendly. Mr. Harris turned his cup nervously in its saucer. Margaret was entertained by their awkwardness, but also didn't want them to be too uncomfortable. She glanced at John and saw he was frowning at the scene as well. Their guest might think him severe, if they hadn't noticed the glint of humor in his eye.

"Did you spend the whole winter in London?" Margaret asked Mr. Harris.

"Yes, about four months. I had a number of business commissions to attend to, in preparation for spring."

"Do you involve yourself in the running of your estate?" John asked him, his tone inquisitive rather than pointed.

"I have an agent, but I'd like to think I do a lot of the work," replied Mr. Harris easily. "The estate was my father's pride and joy; I want to make sure I run it as he did."

"I've always want to see that part of England. The seaside resorts there always sound so luxurious," said Fanny eagerly.

Mr. Harris grinned. "In summer those places are truly lovely, as that's when it's busiest. There's always new people to meet."

"It must be odd coming to Milton and this poor weather, when you are used to a sea climate," observed Mother.

"Milton is at the front of everyone's minds recently. I actually saw Marlborough Mill's display of cotton at the Exhibition. I'm thrilled at the chance to experience the city for myself," replied Mr. Harris, appeasing everyone.

When everyone went up to change for dinner, Fanny almost stood on Margaret heels as she impatiently followed her up to her dressing room.

"What did you think?" she demanded excitedly. "Isn't he divine? And so handsome and proper."

"I liked him very well. He has a pleasing air about him," replied Margaret, smiling at her sister-in-law, who beamed at her.

"He told me he often spends winters in London, because that's the least busy time for his estate. We'd be able to go to London so often, it being far closer than Milton. And to the seaside in summer! That would be heavenly."

"I hope there are other things you like about him too."

"Oh, yes! He loves music. He knows more pieces than even I do; can you believe it? And he told me he looks over his estate on his rides. I don't know how to ride, but Mr. Harris says it's as easy as anything. I'd love to be able to accompany him on his rounds."

"Do you want to live on a farming estate like that?" asked Margaret curiously. Fanny didn't know anything about farming, but that wasn't to say she couldn't learn.

"It'll be great fun!" replied Fanny brightly. "I'm sure I'll love it."

Mr. Harris was just as pleasant during dinner. Margaret could see why Fanny was taken with him. He had the same interests as her, and spoke effortlessly with everyone. He looked often at Fanny, causing her to blush. Margaret thought they'd make an excellent pair.

.

.

.

Mr. Harris and John stayed behind in the dining room for a drink, even though the group was a small one. John had given him the opportunity, thinking Mr. Harris might want to speak privately with him.

He'd watched Mr. Harris carefully that evening. John saw the he liked Fanny; his adoring gaze flicking to her often. He was sensible, but also with a glib sense of humor, which would suit Fanny. Fanny had grown a great deal while in London, polishing the rough edges of her personality, but not becoming a mindless puppet of society. She and Mr. Harris would complement each other well.

John could see that Margaret liked him too. She'd been making faces at him all dinner, looking smug or cajoling as the subject required. John had let Mr. Harris and Fanny carry the conversation, wanting to see how they interacted. Margaret clearly thought he ought to have spoken more.

John cleared his throat. How was one supposed to bring up the topic? It was clear that Mr. Harris hoped to ask Fanny for her hand while he was here, but who was to bring up the point first? When John had spoken to Mr. Hale, he'd simply barreled right into it. That wasn't Mr. Harris's style. John began to see Margaret's point. It was a nerve-racking thing, made worse by the fact it must be spoken of straightforwardly, so that nothing untoward occurred. Mr. Harris too, looked as though he was teetering on the edge of speech.

"You and Miss Thornton seem to be getting along well," John began, a little stiffly.

"Yes, I enjoy her company very much. I've admired her from the moment we met. Her attention never seemed… forced."

John wasn't sure where to go from that. He wished Margaret was here to put him more at ease.

Mr. Harris regarded him nervously. John knew that he was making the man apprehensive with his lack of communication. Mr. Harris was perhaps also concerned that his proposal would not be approved by John. John didn't know if Fanny had shared with him what he'd had done during the last one, or indeed, what she – or even Edith – might've told Mr. Harris about him. Another area of contention was the fact that Mr. Harris intended to take Fanny away so far from her family; and that he was not quite as wealthy as John was. Not that much less, but enough that it might make a difference to John's decision. His wealth also had the potential to increase as it had done in just this year alone, while Mr. Harris was at a rather fixed amount.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," said Mr. Harris quietly, looking at him squarely. "I'm here to ask your permission to ask Miss Thornton to marry me."

"Have you spoken to her yet?"

"She knows of my intentions, but I've not stated the words outright. I wanted to wait for your approval."

"Very well. I shall not stand in your way." That sounded boorish, even to him. John tried again. "You seem well suited, and I'm pleased with your prospects. Miss Thornton, will add to them as well; her dowry is a sound one."

Mr. Harris grinned widely. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton. I'm so pleased you approve. I will look after her well, you can be sure of that. She is all I could wish for – someone with a sense of humor and similar interests. We'll be very happy."

"I've no doubt."

.

"Well?"

Margaret was almost bouncing up and down on the bed, she was so impatient to hear what had been said between the men. John removed his coat slowly then carefully untied his cravat, teasing her.

"I gave my him my consent."

"You needn't sound so glum about it! This is a wonderful thing. They're an excellent match."

John grinned at her mischievously. "I'm not upset about it. In fact, I agree with you. He's not my style of person but he is right for Fanny."

"You didn't like Fred when you first met him, but came to. And me too, for that matter!" she said suddenly, giggling.

He laughed. "Aye, it seems I've a bad habit of discrediting people before I know them."

"Mr. Harris was positively sweating during dinner. I wonder what dreadful stories Fanny told him about you?"

"Oh, terrible ones, I'd wager," he quipped, kneeling on the bed to kiss her. "How hard-hearted and domineering I am."

"Don't I know it."

John snorted and straightened up to finish getting undressed. "Do you think Fanny will enjoy that kind of life?"

"I'm certain of it," said Margaret happily, shifting further down beneath the blankets. "She's eager to have her own life, and that's how she wants to spend it. She'll love all the travelling. And the estate's a good size; she'll enjoy being mistress of a place like that."

John climbed into bed next to her. "What did Mother say to you and Fanny about it? I doubt she kept her opinions to herself."

"She likes him; he's kind, and rich enough to appease her. Although, I think she was a little miffed at Fanny moving to the South. Or perhaps she was sad to have Fanny move so far."

"I as well. But it's not a long journey. We'll have to make a visit once she's married. I might finally be able to see this London everyone keeps praising," he jested.

Margaret giggled and shifted closer to him. "Are you happy?" she asked softly.

"Very," replied John, smiling at her. "A lot of parting of the ways on the horizon, but good ones. I'm pleased with the turn Fanny's life has taken. She deserves it. Although, I learnt something rather alarming about myself over this."

"What's that?"

"If we have daughters, they are going to have a terrible time of it when it's their turn to be married," he observed dryly.

Margaret laughed. "Oh no, I hope you weren't too harsh on him."

"I don't think so, but even I could tell I was being blunt. I was nervous and that always makes me irritable."

"He seemed content enough when the two of you came back in, so I don't think your sour demeanor put him off too much," replied Margaret, her eyes dancing with merriment.

"You are being rather unkind to me tonight," he said, narrowing his eyes at her, "and I would like an apology."

Margaret gave him an exaggerated look of sorrow. "I am eternally and absolutely very sor –"

John cut her off with a kiss, pulling her atop him. "It doesn't work if you're sarcastic about it!"

She laughed then shifted until she was covering his body with hers, laying her head against his chest. John stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He felt more content, pleased with everything. John soon drifted off into an easy sleep.

.

.

.

Fanny and Mr. Harris spent the next three days together, travelling over Milton with Mother or Margaret acting as chaperone. He enjoyed the city and had an appreciation for its industry. Fanny showed him all her favorite haunts with glee. To Margaret's knowledge, Mr. Harris had not asked Fanny to marry him yet, perhaps waiting for a more romantic time. Fanny would welcome that, having a more romantic turn of mind than her practical brother and sister-in-law.

On the last day of his visit, Mr. Harris invited Fanny to walk out with him privately; to which she agreed, blushing furiously.

"Another wedding in as many years. And Fanny will be more taxing and ostentatious than you ever were," Mother griped to Margaret.

Margaret laughed a little. "I'm sure she's got all the planning finished already. But as for ostentatious… there's no denying it'll be an extravagant affair."

Fanny and her beau arrived back home in the early afternoon, both of them beaming widely. Mother stood and offered her congratulations to the couple. Fanny kissed her mother's cheek, then threw her arms around John, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, John. I'm so full of happiness I'm sure I'll burst!"

John smiled. "Congratulations. Both of you," he said, raising his gaze to Mr. Harris. When Fanny released him, he shook Mr. Harris's hand.

Mr. Harris was leaving on the afternoon train again. Mother allowed the two of them to travel to the station together in the carriage, Urquhart driving them. When Fanny returned, she immediately launched into a joyful tirade.

"You'll take me to Horsham soon, won't you, John? It'll be too mean if you don't, you and Margaret got to spend every day of your engagement together. And I have to wait even longer, all the way to August! The fall planting will be finished by then, and Mr. Harris can get away. His estate is such an important one for the village, he must be there for it. He works dreadfully hard, but I'll be able to divert him, I'm sure. I must see it before I move there; I can hardly plan anything if I haven't seen the estate."

"Aye, I'm sure we can find time to take you –"

"And what shall I do for the wedding? I wish it didn't have to be here, the colours would much more pleasing in a garden church, not that dreary one we have here. I must go to London as well, to be fitted. You promised I could, Mother. I'm going to have my wedding gown designed after the Duchess of Sutherland's attire. I saw an illustration of it in a magazine and it looks wonderful, perfect for my figure…"

"Fanny, I don't mind you going to London for your wedding gown, but that's all. You've already spent a fortune there so your trousseau is already fixed," said Mother severely.

Fanny pouted briefly, but then was off again, talking about how wonderful Mr. Harris was.

John leaned closer to Margaret. "I hope we don't have to listen to this every day until _August_ ," he whispered.

"Be nice; she's very happy."

"But must she be happy at such a volume?"

.

.

.

Fred left on the twentieth, the day appropriately grey and rainy. He said his goodbyes to his parents, then Margaret and John accompanied him on the short trip to Liverpool to see him off. The journey was easy, Fred joking and talking enthusiastically the whole way.

John was sad to see him go. He'd come to liked Fred enormously and would miss his laughter. But he could see that his brother-in-law was very keen to leave. Now that he had hold of the idea, Fred was determined to leave England and have new experiences. That excitement appeased his family, who would miss him terribly.

The party arrived at the docks as the ship was in the final stages of preparing to leave. This didn't give John and Margaret much time to say farewell to him; John rather thought that Fred had done it this way on purpose.

The ship was a large vessel and was sure to be crowded with people, if the line to board was any indication. The seamen were working quickly, wanting to get everything prepared as fast as possible before the rain got any worse.

Fred watched the men for a while, a look of quiet glee on his face. He was happy to be back at sea, glad to be on a new adventure. He took a deep breath and turned to Margaret, his expression dimming.

"We've said goodbye too many times, Fred," she said sadly, wiping tears and rain from her cheeks.

"Yes," he replied glumly. "And I'm sorry for each and every one."

Fred gathered Margaret in a tight hug, lifting her off her feet and pressing a kiss to her hair.

"Write to us often," said Margaret, after he released her. "Tell us everything. And keep to your routine."

"I will," he promised. "Thank you, Marguerite, for all you've done. I don't know what I did to deserve a sister like you, but I'm forever thankful."

"Be very careful, Fred. I know it's hard but please try and keep yourself safe. Write to us if you find yourself struggling," pleaded Margaret.

Fred laughed at little. "I'll be _fine_. You're not the one who's supposed to worry about me."

"But I do. So make sure you don't give me any reason to."

Fred nodded then turned slowly to John, his smile disappearing beneath a grave expression. He reached out and shook John's hand firmly. "Thank you," he whispered, looking at him intently. "You've been beyond kind to me, even when I didn't deserve it. Thank you."

John squeezed his hand. "Look after yourself. And come back soon."

John put his arm around Margaret and the two of them stood in the drizzle and watched Fred board the ship. Crowds of people were gathered on the dock and the ship's deck to wave off the passengers. They lost Fred in the crowd for a moment, before he appeared against the railing, leaning over to wave madly at them.

The two of the stayed put until the ship began to pull away. Fred too, staying on the deck waving and laughing, occasionally brushing tears from his face.

"He'll be fine, my love," said John, pulling her closer to him.

"Yes. I'm sure that this time he will."


	35. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

"Ambition's debt is paid"

"What do you think?"

Margaret contemplated the factory floor, admiring the efficient and quick way everyone in this area worked. "I think it's a marvelous idea. Having Marlborough Mill supply printed cotton is a logical next step. But are you sure we can afford it, John? This factory is rather large."

"I'm sure," said John warmly. "We can even buy it outright. Mr. Rider is keen to sell, so the price is very reasonable. The profits from this summer were excellent, and if you'd like to use your inheritance towards it too, that'll put us in great shape."

"Then I think we should," said Margaret assertively. "I think we need another focus, after all that happened this winter."

"That's precisely what I was thinking. Come, lets look in the cleaning shed again. I've already thought of a faster way for the cloth to be washed."

John led the way, Margaret followed behind him, smiling wryly. Last month, John had got it in his head to buy the factory, after he heard talk at Godfrey's that Mr. Rider was looking to sell. Mr. Rider had been unable to keep up with the increased demand over the summer, and now having visited the factory, Margaret could see why. He was a fair employer, but also rather miserly, which had not worked in his favor this year. He was also resistant to change, which was perhaps the main reason that his factory was languishing. He'd decided to cut his losses and sell it now, before he lost too much more.

John had met with him several times, arguing him down to an amount they both agreed on, then asked to view the premises before the final deal was made. Most of what they saw was promising. The hands were hardworking. The work itself was harsh, but no more than any other place. Both Margaret and John could see areas that needed improvement, but a complete overhaul of production wasn't necessary.

"This is the area most in need of amending, I think," John observed, when the two of them reached the cleaning shed. "Unrolling the cloth, submerging it, then re-rolling it is taking to much time. It ought to be done in a way where the fabric is rolled through the water, without having to be removed carelessly from the bolts."

"And have the water pressed out with rollers as well. Hanging it to dry also takes too long when it hasn't been pressed," mused Margaret. "The workers must be given gloves too; that soap is far to harsh to have their hands submerged like that all day."

The workers who were in charge of mixing and storing the vats of dyes were given gloves, but the washing women needed them just as much. Even standing at the entry way, Margaret could see their hands were chapped and red.

"I'm a little surprised Mr. Rider didn't think of a more efficient cleaning production. He uses rollers in the smaller printing rooms," Margaret frowned.

"He's not often here. He lives in Preston and his overseer has been kept under tight control. Mr. Rider made a point of telling me that the man was always making 'wild suggestions.' Now that I've seen the factory, I think the suggestions were less wild and more of a functional nature. But Mr. Rider loathes spending anything he doesn't have to."

"Did he tell you what his average output is?" she asked.

"Two thousand ells a day, give or take. I think we'd be able to get that to three and a half, without adding any additional workers."

Margaret grinned at John's confidence. "I've no doubt."

She thought it an achievable goal. The cleaning shed was the most haphazard, but improvements could be made all over, in particular the number of times the cloth was unwound from the spool and wound again somewhere else.

This factory had two dye rooms, the larger of which had a flat printing machine which produced detailed and colourful prints. Margaret had never seen anything like it. Bolts of plain cotton were loaded on rollers, which stretch the fabric taunt and flat against the surface of the long metal table. There were ten flat printing machines in the shed. Each machine had sixteen workers, two positioned at single printing screen. The workers pressed printing screens against the fabric, then used a large scraping tool to push the dye across the screen, the worker opposite grabbing the tool and pulling it towards themselves to complete its movement across the surface of the fabric. This action produced a pattern; more screens could be added to create a more complicated pattern with additional colours. The workers were careful to position the screen so as to not mark the cotton with any dye other than that on the pattern.

At the end of the flat machine was a warming machine that dried the dyes – the printed fabric maneuvered through it atop wooden rollers and spooled again on the other side.

Cheaper, simpler prints, and those that were all one colour, were produced on rotary machines, the rollers hand-turned to pull the cotton through the mechanism. The rotary room was far more crowded and produced faster, as the task was not as complicated. New employees and children worked in this room before they could be promoted to the screen printing. There were no warming machines in that shed; the dyed fabric was air-dried briefly, then put straight into the steaming room with the screen printed cotton. The steam room had wooden frames that the fabric was hung from and steamed for a few hours so as to fix the dye to the cotton. Without the warming step for the cheaper cotton, the dyes often ran, creating a streaked pattern or a bolt that was more faded on one end than it was on the other, as the dye pooled towards the floor.

It was the rotary cotton that was sold to the lower class dress shops. Margaret disliked that it was of a poor quality because it was simpler, and wanted warming machines to be added in that shed as well.

"So, shall I agree?" John asked her.

"Absolutely. This will be a wonderful opportunity."

John grinned and kissed her briefly, before heading back to Mr. Rider's office to inform him of their decision.

"Ask him what he paid for the warming machine," she called. "I want to buy more of those."

John nodded, climbing the stairs quickly. Margaret smiled. John was very enthusiastic about this. It was exactly what he thrived on; pushing the limits of what could be done. It brought him out of his somber mood of the winter, letting him focus on something new and exciting. Margaret would've agreed to almost anything to see John as happy as he'd been last summer.

Back at the manor, John told Mother that everything had been finalized; the papers being signed next week. Fanny was sitting at her piano, listening half-heartedly to the conversation as it didn't interest her. She could often be found practicing duets and the music Mr. Harris sent her. The two of them were keeping a regular correspondence, Fanny sharing tidbits so as to not make her mother think they were talking of anything they shouldn't be. Margaret trusted them – Mr. Harris had a good character and Fanny wouldn't do something that would truly risk her reputation.

"You ought to take out an advert in the papers, explaining that the dyer is now under Marlborough Mill," suggested Mother.

John nodded. "That's a good idea. I'd planned to write to all my regular buyers and Rider's as well, but an advert would reach new clients. I'll draft it and have it put in once everything is underway."

"The two of you are going to be incredibly busy for the next few months, if you end up implementing all that you want to," said Mother, frowning a little. "Are you sure you should be doing something so taxing?"

The last of this was directed at Margaret, rather pointedly. Mother had been making statements like this ever since Fred left. No doubt she'd noticed that Margaret and John had become as wrapped up in each other as they had been before Fred's incident, and obviously thought it meant something.

"I'll be fine; I enjoy being busy," Margaret replied.

Mother made an exasperated noise, her suspicion not confirmed. Margaret and John looked at each other amusedly. Margaret was sure that Mother would decrease the subtly of her remarks, before finally asking outright why Margaret was not yet with child.

Margaret knew that she still wasn't ready. She wanted to focus all her energy on this new expansion. They had so many ideas they wanted to implement, but they would be ones that required greater research, John not having as much experience in this portion of cloth production. The two of them would discuss it again after everything was more settled. It hadn't been that long since they were wed for their families to be alarmed.

"I hope you won't be too busy to take me to Sussex!" exclaimed Fanny, having heard the last of the conversation. "You've already promised you would, John, you can't beg off now."

"I'm not. We'll go soon," John sighed.

"When?" demanded Fanny.

"When Mr. Harris invites us. When we have the time."

"I wish to go _soon_. I need to make arrangements for everything and I can't do that if I haven't seen the place. Peter is describing it to me, but it's not enough; I need to see it with my own eyes."

"We'll go when I have time, Fanny," said John irritably. "In a month or two. I will be sure to inform you the second I decide."

"Margaret and I can go by ourselves," Fanny insisted.

"Fanny, you just heard that she is busy. Besides, I won't have the two of you taking such a long journey alone. Goodness knows what would happen," replied Mother firmly.

"We'd get to experience something new is what would happen," muttered Fanny sullenly, flouncing out of the room in a huff before anyone could reprimand her.

"I can't say that her attitude had improved much since her engagement," said Mother crossly.

"I think that's just how Fanny acts when she's excited," replied Margaret, smiling a little.

"I hope Mr. Harris is up to the task," said John in an annoyed voice.

"John," chided Margaret gently. "She's not being shipped off to a finishing school. She and Mr. Harris loved each other greatly."

"That was a poor attempt at humor, then."

.

A letter from Fred arrived the next morning. He'd been writing steadily in the weeks since he'd left, assuring her of his contentment. He detailed the beautiful sights of Santander, the port city he'd arrived in and had yet to leave. This most recent letter detailed his plans to travel to Madrid. He also told her that his fits were not subsiding. Fred spoke of the odd things he did during them. They were alarming but not particularly destructive to himself or anyone else.

Margaret had been trying to find more information on people who suffered as Fred did, but other than a French scientific article, she hadn't much luck. She didn't want to ask Mr. Jenkins or write to any specialists, as that might lead to questions and investigations that had to be avoided if John's deception was to remain undetected.

Instead, she focused on researching medicinals for him. She learnt that St John's-wort was useful for fits of melancholy, and wrote to Fred about this remedy, although he told her the sadness didn't happen nearly as often. Margaret bought some of the plant herself, to keep for John if he needed it.

In addition to her medicinal research, Margaret had also been researching and developing ear protection devices for the workers in the spinning sheds, to help protect them from hearing loss. After a great deal of trial and error, she crafted a small device that was made from a wad of cotton covered with rubber. She wore them in the spinning shed, staying for an hour to test their effectiveness. They didn't completely block out the noise but they did bring some measure of relief. They would certainly be better than nothing.

She made a hundred pairs, for the workers and the inevitable misplacement of the small devices. She asked all the doffers to wear them, but gave the adults a choice as to use them or not.

John too was hard at work, building a roller machine for washing the lengths of cloth. He'd sketched out the design he wanted, then created a huge prototype in the courtyard. It was constructed in the form of a zigzag, each rolled hand turned. The lower rollers passed through square metal troughs to allow for washing, while the ones at the end allowed for the water to be pressed out. The rolling action meant that the cotton retained it's wound shape without having to be unspooled. It was a wonder to watch in action and an excellent example of craftsmanship.

By the beginning of March, he'd built ten and had them installed in the washing shed. They'd bought more drying machines for the rotary cotton, which improved the quality of them. Margaret had thought they'd have to increase the price of the plain cotton to help pay for the upkeep of the new machines, but John suggested they hold off, to see if the increase in quality lead to additional buyers instead.

John waited until all the workers adjusted to the new system, and then counted up how many bolts could be achieved in a week.

"Almost five thousand extra ells. Not as high as I wanted, but still a good amount."

"And a new supplier interested in establishing a contract," Margaret replied happily, showing him the letter that had been delivered while he was in the storage shed. "They want samples of the cloth sent to them. We ought to cut up lengths and keep them here to send away when we need."

She went to the cabinet along the wall of the office and began opening the drawers, trying to find if Mr. Ryder kept any samples of the printed fabric already. She hadn't been through these drawers much, as they were incredibly untidy.

"I'm afraid to find something terrifying in here," she said grimly. "How anyone can be this disorganized is beyond me. How did they ever find anything?"

"It seems organization was not high on their list of priorities," John agreed, moving to help her rummage through the contents. "There are vats of dye that look to be quite a few years old and have developed an awful tinge to them. A few of the old screens have been kept in storage without being cleaned, ruining the print."

"Some of the workers told me that their pay was late every quarter last summer. I'm no longer surprised that Mr. Ryder was forced to sell. How he managed to hang on to such a sensible overseer, I'll never know," said Margaret.

The drawers were in such a jumble that she and John spent the entire afternoon sorting through the contents. They kept the ledgers, although had to discard two of them, as an inkwell had been spilt onto them, making them illegible. There were letters from clients, tied together in no order whatsoever. Margaret even found a mouse skeleton in one of the bottom drawers. But she did also find some pattern books with wonderful examples of the prints that could be produced at the factory.

"I should show this to Fanny. See if there's anything in here that she wants to add to her trousseau," said Margaret, flipping excitedly through the samples.

"Better not. Mother was adamant Fanny isn't to buy anything more."

"But this is lovely! The blue with gold flowers… it would suit her."

"Do it if you wish, but when Mother complains I'll not protect you from her ire," John grinned.

.

Mr. Harris came to Milton for another visit, planning to stay for one week but extending it to two. He and Fanny spent as much time as they could together and were just as companionable as before. They went to the theatre and a few concerts together, and Fanny took him to meet all her friends and show him off.

The day he left, Fanny came to Margaret in the drawing room.

"Margaret? May I please speak with you privately?"

She was surprised at Fanny's shy voice, but agreed cheerfully. She shut the door firmly and motioned for Fanny to sit beside her on the sofa.

"Is this about Mr. Harris?"

Fanny blushed. "Yes. I love him and I'm sure I'll be very happy with him. But I'm nervous about some things too. I wanted to ask you about… married life. One's intimate relationship."

"Your mother didn't explain the act to you?" asked Margaret stupefied. Mother was a tight-lipped woman, it was true, but she didn't have issue with expressing her views. Surely she would've wanted her own daughter to know about marital relations.

"I know the idea of it. What must be done. But… you and John are always so comfortable together and that's what I want too. I do feel comfortable with Peter but also anxious and I don't want to be. I don't want him to think I'm silly," said Fanny quietly, biting her lip.

Margaret was pleased by Fanny's straightforwardness. That would serve her well in her marriage, especially in this area. She resolved to be far more forthcoming than Mama and Edith had been when they explained sex to her.

"Everyone is nervous," she reassured her. "He will be as well. The best advice I can give you is to speak openly with him; have the two of you talk about it. You will likely need to explain to him about how to make you comfortable."

"Won't that be terribly awkward?"

"Yes, but that can make it fun too."

"Fun, really? Everyone says it's rather unpleasant," said Fanny, wrinkling her nose.

"It depends. The first time can go either way. Ask him to go slowly. It gets much better as you learn each other."

"Is it true that it's painful?"

"Just the first time."

"How do you know when the encounter is over?"

Margaret pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. "You'll know. Usually when the man is finished."

"How long does that take?"

"Ah… well, that depends on lots of things. The act itself is not very long. But if you want it to be longer, you must tell him so he can… make it so."

"Why would I want it to go on _longer_?" asked Fanny, bemused.

"It takes longer for women to feel pleasure from it. You'll be able to tell that, if you're relaxed enough."

"Will he know that?"

"I think it unlikely. That's why you must speak with him about it. Make it into an amusing thing, rather than an accusation. Be honest, but be patient too. You're both new to it."

"What if I don't feel anything?" asked Fanny, mystified. "I didn't think it was supposed to be like that."

"It doesn't matter if you don't straightaway," said Margaret soothingly. "If you don't like it, that's fine. You can make it an irregular act if you want."

Fanny stared at her calculatingly. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Very much. It's an intimate thing, but that doesn't mean it has to be awkward. It helps foster closeness with your husband. You learn new things about each other."

"But if I act as though I enjoy it, won't that make him think I'm a fallen woman?"

Margaret thought on that. She and John were very open with each other, but she knew not all couples wanted to act in that manner. She didn't know Mr. Harris well enough to judge how he would perceive forwardness, and she certainly didn't want Fanny to misunderstand her and act melodramatically.

"I'm… not sure. You'll have to be mindful about it, and take your cue from how he acts. All you can do is be truthful and ask him to be as well. Nothing will be achieved if you don't communicate how you feel."

Fanny looked to be thinking on Margaret's words. "Is that why you and John are comfortable in each others company? You talk to each other about this?"

"About everything. But yes, that too. The first conversation was rather embarrassing, but now it's easier. It will be for you as well," Margaret assured her.

Fanny thanked her and went away with a calculating expression. Margaret hoped she'd been right in speaking truthfully about how she felt. She knew that irritation in one area of marriage could bleed into other areas, until you were cross about everything. She wanted to convey to Fanny that communication was important, rather than attempting to make one's self experience something that you didn't want to.

.

.

.

Production began to run much more smoothly in April. The output John had set for the two factories was finally being met, and his new employees were working very efficiently. So efficiently, in fact, that he was constantly at war with himself over his need to intervene in the operation, and knowing that the factory was already a successful enterprise. He and Margaret had lost no time in organizing another mess hall in the new mill, and adding the children to the schoolhouse. John also increased the wages of the hands, as Mr. Ryder hadn't been paying them particularly well.

He and Margaret also debated over whether to change the name of their business to their own, since they now had the addition of another factory under their charge. But they ultimately decided that Marlborough Mill had too much recognition for a change to be useful.

This became even more apparent when a journalist from London came to Milton to interview John about the factory. This was nothing new, but this journalist wanted facts on the philanthropic improvements the Thorntons had made since John took over the mill.

John and Margaret spent a few good hours with the journalist, explaining all the changes that had occurred, from the layout of the mill to the dust masks. The man was very enthusiastic, and excitedly asking them any number of questions. He scribbled down everything he heard and saw.

"You've bought another factory recently, is that true?"

"A textile factory, yes. Three months ago. They dye and print fabrics," John replied.

"What prompted that decision?"

"We wanted to expand our enterprise, and be able to offer our buyers additional products that they often required anyway."

"Have you already introduced your improvements there?"

"Aye, in production and for the well-being of the workers."

"Why did you chose to focus on these improvements in particular?"

John motioned to Margaret, indicating that those were her projects. Margaret cheerfully described how her work at the hospital led her to create the dust masks, and her exposure to the mill prompted the addition of all the rest.

.

The article was published on both sides of the North Atlantic. John soon began receiving a multitude of letters. Some were new contracts; others were more people inquiring about investments. But quite a few of them were philanthropists and humanitarians who wrote to praise their attention to the welfare of others. The proprietor of the Exchange and the mayor also wrote to him, thanking him for the positive attention for Milton, helping ease people's indignation over the factory conditions in the North. Even Fred wrote to congratulate him, having read the article in the English newspapers supplied to expatriates abroad.

Fred also wrote to Margaret, telling her that he'd made some wonderful new friends in Madrid; a group of artists and poets. His letter was filled with all the adventures they'd had, with barely a reference to his fits. Margaret had decided to cautiously hope that was due to his lack of them, rather than him discontinuing his routine.

.

For Margaret's birthday, John planned a few days away in the mountains of Derbyshire. They took the carriage and Gus, and spent their time hiking over the hills. Completely secluded from everyone, Margaret tied her skirts up nearly to her thighs and savored being able to move more freely.

At the the crest of the mountain top, he and Margaret sat on the edge of a rocky ledge, admiring the spectacular view. Gus was afraid of the drop and instead lay down behind them, panting heavily from his brisk trot beside them.

"I'm always glad I live in a city, until I come to a place like this," she observed. "A little stone cottage all the way out here would be heaven."

"I could do it for a little while. But I think the solitude would become to consuming after a while. I'm not someone who should be left alone with their thoughts," replied John lightly, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun. Margaret leant against him with a sigh.

"I love how wild the scenery is here. I'm used to country land that is uniform, not this organized chaos that's allowed to reign free. And the multitude of greens! Those would make a perfect design –"

"None of that. No work, remember?" John reminded her.

"As if you aren't composing letters to Williams and Anderson inside your mind right now!" she shot back.

" _I'm_ doing it quietly," he laughed.

.

They arrived back at the inn rather late and missed dinner as a result. But they were able to find something far better to do.

With only the firelight illuminating the room, Margaret was beyond enticing. She removed her clothes slowly, teasing him. Even her corset, a new one, which was a plainer design that laced up at the front. She undid each item completely before letting it fall to the floor, standing at a maddening distance from the bed that he couldn't touch her.

When she came closer to him, he reached out and dragged her roughly against him, pulling her to straddle him.

"Don't make me wait any longer," he moaned. "That was torture."

Margaret giggled but did as he asked. Without bothering to remove anything more than his waistcoat, she unbuttoned his trousers and took him in hand, making him groan loudly. She went slowly again, smiling against his lips when he made a noise of frustration. John tangled one hand in her hair, using the other to pleasure her too. She was soon stroking him faster in response to her own heightened feeling. He was much closer than her and so gathered her in his arms and twisted them both until she was laying across the bed and he could slide his tongue inside her. Margaret cried out joyfully at the sensation, using one of her legs to press him closer to her. It wasn't long before she came apart, quickly keeling to the floor to return the favour. He was so tense from her teasing and his attention to her that he fell apart hard, moaning her name.

Margaret stood up and languidly pushed him back to the bed, sinking down to lay beside him. She trailed her fingertips down his sweaty chest, undoing his shirt as she went.

"Don't fall asleep, my love. I'm not even close to being finished with you," John promised breathlessly.

Margaret shifted up onto her elbow, leaning down to kiss him. When she pulled away, her expression was one of a beautiful desire.

"I want to watch you again," she whispered, dragging her tongue against his bare chest.

John groaned. He slid his hands down her arms, guiding her own hands to her core. "You first."

.

.

.

"Here, what do you make of this?"

John reached across the breakfast table to give Margaret a letter and a thick card that was written in an elegant hand. The card was a formal invitation, requesting the company of Mr. and Mrs. John Thornton to visit the Earl of Calverton at his country estate, Whalton Park in Northumberland, three weeks hence.

John had been writing back and forth with Lord Calverton since the end of April. The Earl was the Lord Lieutenant of the Northumberland militia, and had commissioned Marlborough Mill to supply the dyed cloth for part of the militia's new uniforms, as well as for the livery of the Earl's two hundred employees in his personal homes.

Margaret read through the letter quickly, also surprised at the invitation. The contact had been completed not long ago and should've been the end of the arrangement.

"'I have been following your enterprise with the utmost interest recently. I am simply astounded at the scale of your mill and the leaps you have made in such a short span of time. The article in _The Evening Standard_ intrigued me greatly; your humanitarian focus, while still maintaining a reputation for the largest cotton production in Britain. I wish to invite you and your wife to spend five days at my estate, so that I might meet you in person and learn more about your incredible rise to power.'" Margaret read aloud in astonishment. "Goodness. He makes you sound like a dictator."

John snorted. "Have you met him before? In London?"

"I don't believe so," replied Margaret, wrinkling her brow, trying to remember. "The name is familiar. His family name is Hampton-Claire if I remember rightly, but I don't think I've met anyone with connections to that family."

"Do you think we should attend?"

"Of course you should attend," Mother exclaimed. "One of your clients has asked to meet with you."

"In a rather odd way," John frowned. "I've never met him in person before. A more fitting course would be to visit us here."

"Perhaps he cannot be away from the estate."

"While we can be away from our business for twice as long?"

"We're putting too much thought into this," Margaret said. "I think he meant it to be for entertainment, and talk business at the same time."

"Because it wouldn't occur to an earl that we might have more pressing obligations," said John sourly.

"None of that," Margaret replied reprovingly. "The more I read this letter, the more I think he is very enthusiastic to meet you. He's read about us, and is simply curious."

John sighed. "Very well. Five days away shouldn't be a problem. I can't say I have a burning desire to visit a country estate, but we might as well go and see what all the fuss is about."

"I can't believe you're going on a trip again but still won't take me to Sussex!" exclaimed Fanny crossly.

"Nottingham is far closer. Please, Fanny, don't start again," said John wearily, when she opened her mouth to retort. "I _will_ take you when we return."

Margaret understood Fanny's irritation; she herself knew how awful it was to be separated for one's fiancé, but Fanny was also becoming rather snappish in her demands. Mr. Harris had visited again only a few weeks ago, and John spoke the truth; they simply didn't have the time. There was one one else to take her; Mother was not keen to journey so far, and Edith had too many engagements at present to act as chaperone.

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Margaret hadn't been on a country visit in years but remembered most of what ought to be done. She asked Caoimhe to retrieve the travelling trunks from the attic and set about making a list of everything that would need to be done between now and then. Lord Calverton had included a train schedule in the letter that followed the Thorntons acceptance, and explained that a carriage would be waiting to take them on the half hour journey from Newcastle to his estate. This was a kind gesture and meant that she and John would not have to deprive Mother of the carriage for a long exhausting drive across several counties.

Margaret asked Mama to come for tea, so that she could be sure she'd thought of everything.

"I'll have to order a new evening gown, he's sure to host a least one formal dinner," said Margaret, examining her list. "And tails and white tie for John. We might get invited to more of these in the future, we ought to be prepared."

"I don't think there will be enough time for you to go to London to be fitted," Mama fretted.

"No, we'll go to York."

"You'll need a country dress as well."

Margaret looked at Mama in surprise. "No I don't."

"Of course you do, what will you wear for the hunt?"

"Mama, there won't be a hunt. It's a business visit, not a friendly one."

"You can't invite guests to a country house and not shoot," Mama insisted.

"Lord Calverton knows we're not a hunting family. It would be more remiss of him to hold a shooting party in these circumstances."

Margaret had to chivvy John into coming to York with her to be fitted for his formal evening wear; he thought it an unnecessary extravagance, but Margaret knew that these visits were huge undertakings and that the etiquette must be followed to the letter.

"Perhaps we ought to ask Hayden to come with us as your valet," she mused.

"I don't need a valet. I'm perfectly able to dress myself," John replied irritably.

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Fine. I hope you don't bite the head off the footman they send up to attend to you."

All of their new clothing arrived on time and Margaret and Caoimhe carefully packed up everything in the trunks. She was particularly excited about her new evening gown – a lovely mulberry coloured one with dozens of flowers embroidered in silver thread, cascading down from her waist to the floor. They also went through Margaret's jewelry box and selected the pieces they thought she would need.

"I'm nervous, ma'am. They'll judge you on my behaviour. What if I forget things?" asked Caoimhe worriedly.

Margaret smiled. "Just remember you're above almost everyone else in station. You are the one to give instructions about how you want things done. If you have any questions, don't ask – demand, as though they ought to have read your mind and known you needed it in advance," she told her, half in jest. Caoimhe was Irish; Margaret hoped the others would be kind to her.

"What if I don't know my way 'round the house?"

"They'll show you were to go; they won't expect you to know things like that. The footman will take the luggage, and you'll follow him around to the courtyard and the servant's entrance. The butler will introduce himself and tell you which room we're in and what time he's to ring the dressing bell. I'm not sure when you'll eat dinner; lots of places do it differently. I expect before the family does, so it might be as soon as we get there."

"Shall I take the dressin' case with me?" asked Caoimhe, indicating to the case they were packing all of Margaret's toiletries into.

"Yes please, we don't carry anything in."

"You're making this far more complicated than it needs to be," John said from behind them. Margaret turned and made a face at him. He was leaning against the doorframe, glowering at the two women.

"It is complicated. There's a lot riding on this. What if this visit leads to other commissions?"

"Then it does. I don't see how wearing tails is going to influence anything."

"How like a man. You'll thank me when you see everyone else is dressed the same way."

They left Milton at midday so that they could arrive in Newcastle in the late afternoon. The carriage that was sent to pick them up was an elegant one, with a coachman, and a footman who stood at the back and leapt down quickly to help Margaret inside.

The short drive was beautifully scenic; they soon were out of the town and jolting down the road to Walton Park. The winding road cut through the hills, almost the entire road was lined with trees. In contrast, the gravel drive up to the house was a straight line, with a small circle at the base of the house to allow the carriage to turn around. The sun lit up the stone house with a wonderful orange glow.

It was a huge stately house, shaped rather like an E without the middle bar. A wide set of steps led to a grassy landing, and to another set of steps that led to the front doors. Livered servants were lined up on the second tier, maids on one side and footman on the other. John stepped out first and helped Margaret down.

"Hello, hello! Welcome to Walton!" puffed Lord Calverton, bouncing down the steps to greet them. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Thornton. I can honestly say that you live up to your name."

"Lord Calverton," John greeted him. "Thank you for inviting us. This is my wife, Margaret Thornton."

Lord Calverton turn to her, a wide grin on his face. "The pleasure is all mine. I'm pleased to put faces to names at last. Come in, come in. We've tea set up in the small library."

Margaret liked Lord Calverton instantly; he was very personable and enthusiastic. He was a short, balding man with the beginning of a paunch, but carried himself with a rather graceful air. He led the couple through the foyer, their hats and coats taken by the waiting servants, then showed them to the ante library. It was a rather dull room; the books and walls being almost the exact same toffee shade.

"Margaret?"

A tall woman with beautiful brown hair stood and came towards her, a look of delight on her face. It took Margaret an agonizing moment to place her.

"Charlotte! Lady Calverton," she amended quickly.

"Oh, never mind that! It _is_ you! How wonderful you look!" she gushed, embracing her lightly. "It's been ages since I saw you last, why, almost five years now."

"Yes, a long time," replied Margaret, still a little staggered.

"All this time Lord Calverton spoke of the Thorntons, I had no idea we had a connection!" she cried, grinning happily at her husband.

"Well, what a wonderful coincidence!" Lord Calverton beamed. "This is going to be an excellent visit."

Charlotte turned to John and said brightly; "I'm so happy you've come. Margaret and I were good friends in London, we came out together. Seems like such a long time ago, doesn't it? Come, sit and have some tea. We'll have a little chat before dinner. We've invited a few of our neighbors as well, so it'll be a merry party."

After everyone had settled, the butler made the rounds with the tea. Charlotte peppered Margaret with questions about her life since she'd left London. Charlotte was the daughter of a baronet, so to have married an earl and become a countess must've pleased her family to no end, but Charlotte didn't harbor such conceited behavior herself. She'd been one of the few of her London acquaintances that Margaret had liked.

"How exciting to live in a place like Milton at a time like this, to be right at the front of all this industry. Do you enjoy it?"

"Very much. Our house is actually inside the mill yard, so we are closer than most," Margaret smiled.

"How thrilling! What an exciting industry to be in. I read that article after Lord Calverton wrote to you, such brilliant ideas the two of you have."

"Marlborough Mill will revolutionize the cotton industry, mark my words," Lord Calverton supplied dramatically.

Margaret grinned at that, pleased at the compliment. She glanced at John, who smiled half-heartedly at the pronouncement. John said very little, perhaps to give Margaret and Charlotte time to catch up.

"Oh, there's the dressing bell. Clara, will you show the Thorntons up to their room?" Charlotte asked, turning to the maid, who nodded. "Dinner will be half an hour; we'll meet in the blue drawing room. It's at the end of the hallway to the left."

John and Margaret followed the maid to a bedroom that was at the extreme end of the wing, and had a wonderful view of a lake. Their cases had already been delivered; Caoimhe arrived promptly after Margaret rang the bell for her.

"No trouble finding your way then?" she said amusedly.

"I walked it a couple times so I would know the way," Caoimhe replied, grinning. "It's a grand house, isn't it? The footman downstairs was tellin' me the estate is over a thousand acres!"

Margaret chose her pleated green dress for dinner, wanting to save her new one for a grander night.

"Which one would you have me wear?" John asked Margaret bitingly, indicating to his evening outfits.

Margaret was a little taken aback at his rudeness. "The black tie; tonight won't be so formal," she said quietly.

John disappeared into the dressing room, the door banging shut behind him.

"Is everythin' all right, ma'am?" Caoimhe asked after an awkward pause.

"I'm not sure," whispered Margaret. She couldn't imagine what had irritated John so, particularly enough to snap at her. Nothing had happened since this morning, to her knowledge, and he'd been perfectly fine then.

She finished dressing in silence, and sent Caoimhe off with their travelling clothes, so that they could be cleaned. John returned to the bedroom, looking handsome despite his frown. He wore a look that she hadn't seen in ages, not since they'd been married. He was holding himself very stiffly, the corners of his mouth turned down in distaste.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," she replied warily, taking his arm. He barely looked at her as they made their way down the carved staircase to the drawing room. He didn't remark on how beautiful she looked, as he normally did when they dressed up like this. Margaret's mind spun in circles, wondering what she might have done to upset him and why he wasn't saying so.

The room had two more couples in addition to Lord and Lady Calverton; they were introduced as Sir and Lady Merton, and Mr. and Mrs. Hartford. Everyone was friendly and welcoming, except John, who spoke only when someone asked him a question directly. The arrival of another pair, the Beatons, signaled the completion of their number and the butler announced dinner.

Margaret could see that John had been about to follow their hosts through the door, a logical move, but logic was not at play here. She stealthily held his arm so that the two of them waited until everyone but the Hartfords had gone through, then followed.

"What was that for?" he whispered irritably.

"Order of precedence," she whispered back. "You're a magistrate, that means we're supposed to go through next."

John made an annoyed noise. They sat opposite each other, and so Margaret was able to see every cross expression on his face. She was so preoccupied by his odd behavior that she hardly paid attention to Mr. Beaton who, thankfully, talked enough for both of them. The food was lovely and delicate, but Margaret couldn't appreciate it. John was behaving almost rudely and it concerned her.

Everyone here had heard of them and spoke easily about their own interests in manufacturing.

"How is it you got into the cotton industry, Mr. Thornton?" asked Sir Merton.

"Necessity."

The short reply bemused Margaret. It was a sad story, but John had explained it to others without such abruptness.

"How do you enjoy Milton?" asked Mrs. Beaton, directing the question at Margaret.

"It's wonderful; always moving forward. It has a unique beauty to it," she replied, trying to smile.

Dinner was long and awkward. Margaret had almost forgotten how boring these things were most of the time. It was particularly difficult when no one knew each other, and topics were only superficial ones. The dinner parties they held at the manor weren't nearly so stiff, as everyone had common links. John also did not have a liking for large groups; perhaps that was why he was acting so severe.

An hour and a half later, the ladies rose and returned to the drawing room. Margaret wished they weren't separating; she wanted to get John alone to ask him what was bothering him.

Charlotte came and sat beside her. Margaret was glad to see a familiar face.

"You look a little flushed," Charlotte observed quietly with a look of concern. "I hope I didn't alarm you with the party. I remember you not enjoying such things."

"Oh no, I'm fine. Only, I'd forgotten how taxing these things are," Margaret assured her.

Charlotte smiled. "I can't say I'm surprised at the avenue your life took. I never thought you'd be the type to content to remain in London forever. How is it you came to be in Milton?"

"We moved there after my father decided to take up teaching. He is a professor now, at the new college there."

"Was it quite an adjustment? It's such a different environment than in London."

"Yes it was, but a lovely one. Milton suits me much better than London did."

"I don't remember reading about your about your marriage in the papers. How long have you been married?"

"Almost a year," Margaret smiled. "It was only put in locally."

"I've been married two. I can't say I was taken with George when I first met him," confided Charlotte. "It was my parents who pushed me to make his acquaintance and put myself forward as a candidate. He wasn't fooled of course, society mamas pushed their daughters at him all the time. I didn't want to put in the path of a man like him, and he didn't want to be married. He much preferred the company of women he didn't have to attach himself to. We greatly disliked each other, and we didn't bother to hide it. That led to some rather backhanded maneuvers from the both of us. But then we found we actually enjoyed how… real we were with each other. All our flaws and impoliteness out for the other to see, rather than the prettiness of a façade. When he finally did propose, we were both half in love already, and we've only grown closer since."

"How lovely," smiled Margaret. "Very unconventional, and still worked out beautifully. That is similar to my marriage as well. Both of us from different poles, but our differences only strengthen our relationship."

"Yes, exactly," said Charlotte enthusiastically. "I've always felt that marriage ought to be a partnership, no matter who one is with. I married my family's candidate, it's true, but I didn't do it to please _them_ ; I did it because George was who I wanted to be with."

"Did you find it difficult coming into such a grand lifestyle?" asked Margaret curiously. The leap from baronet to earldom must have been a huge change.

"Oh yes, very much so. I felt quite flustered in the first few months, even with George helping me. I still have trouble getting the butler to agree with me sometimes. Raleigh is loyal to the estate rather than the transient family, so we are at loggerheads regularly. He has this way of staring at me in such bitter disappointment that it makes me want to agree to anything just to make him stop glaring at me."

Margaret giggled. "That does sound rather trying. I can't say I've experienced anything similar. My mother-in-law runs our house, while I work at the mill with John. Some of our male workers resented a woman's presence but I've won them over."

"I do admire that. How thrilling to do something so purposeful every day."

The men soon joined them, but Margaret and John were kept apart. Margaret was asked to join a game of whist, and John was being monopolized by Lord Calverton and Sir Merton. Margaret wondered what they could possibly be talking about that was making John look so out of sorts.

Finally, at nine o'clock, Charlotte announced that every one ought to retire. "We've a picnic planned for tomorrow. It'll be great fun!"

Back in their rooms, Margaret asked John cautiously; "What was Lord Calverton talking to you about?"

"This and that. Sir Merton talked of investing," he said with a frown. "With intelligence, I'll admit, but I still don't want to bring him in. Even with the new factory, we don't need it."

Margaret agreed, but was miffed by his dismissive tone.

"What's wrong, John? You've been off all day. You barely spoke a word during dinner."

"Nothing's wrong," he said shortly.

 _That_ irritated her. "Oh no, were not doing that. Either something is wrong and you tell me right now, or nothing is wrong, in which case you were being rude tonight for no other reason than to irritate everyone."

John scowled at her biting tone, clearly debating whether to answer her or not. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, his eyes hard.

"I feel… inadequate."

Margaret stared at him, stunned. "What?"

"Seeing you here, with your friend, talking with her… you knew all the rules, how everything was going to work in this grand house, and you're comfortable here, whereas I am not. You're used to this, from your aunt's house."

"My aunt's house was nowhere as grand as this."

"You know what I mean," he snapped. "If you had stayed in London, you could have all this too. It made me realize – truly realize – all you left behind."

"Not this again, John –"

"I'm not saying you don't love me, or that you aren't happy!" John insisted. "It just… never occurred to me how different our lives are."

"My _old_ life," she emphasized. "I never wanted a life like this, not even back then. Could you really see me happy here? I'd be so restless and peevish." Exactly how she'd been feeling all evening.

John didn't look appeased. In fact, he was looking at her with a strange expression; defensive and self-conscious.

"And all these bloody rules. An order of procession to walk through a _doorway_ , the hundred outfits for every occasion. You've packed us more things than you did for our month away!"

"Because that's how it works here," said Margaret, trying to explain. John was angry about something more, but she couldn't tell what. "It doesn't matter in Milton, but it does to these people. I was just –"

"Are you ashamed of me, is that it?" he demanded, his harsh gaze darting towards her and away again.

"Of course not!" she cried, horrified. "That's not what I was doing at all! I only wanted us to be prepared, not… pretending to be something we're not. I'm very sorry, John, if that was the impression I gave you."

Margaret thought back her actions, seeing them as he must have. She'd completely bowled him over these past weeks. She'd been so focused on making a good impression that she didn't stop to think. Margaret brushed off his comments, thinking he didn't understand the gravity of their visit, when in fact he'd been telling her his _opinion_ on all of it. She'd completely dismissed his feelings when he would never do that to her.

She went quickly to his side, taking his hand. Margaret gingerly reached up and turned his face to look at her. "I'm so sorry, darling," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "I wasn't thinking. This was supposed to be a fun thing and I've spoilt it for you. I didn't think about how it made you feel."

John sighed heavily. "Perhaps I was too sensitive about it."

"No, this was all my fault," she insisted. "You told me what you thought and I didn't listen. I won't do that again. And I'm not ashamed of you, I could never be that. You are worth ten times more than any of those others."

He smiled softly. "I'm glad to hear you say so. I'd been apprehensive since we arrived and that hideous dinner just stoked it further."

"It was rather awful, wasn't it? Charlotte I like very well, but the others were such bores," she said lightly, then regarded him sadly.

"Have I ruined it for you? Shall we ask Lord Calverton to leave tomorrow?"

"No, we'll stay. Now that I know your reasoning, I'll be calmer. Though I can't promise to be any more comfortable."

"Nor I. I never really enjoyed making visits of this kind. But perhaps it will become more business focused tomorrow. If not, we shall be uncomfortable together."

John chuckled and Margaret smiled, relieved. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close, very sorry to have hurt him.

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John was rudely awoken the next morning by the sound a military salute. He jerked into a sitting position, looking blearily for the source of the noise. Looking out the window, he saw a man in uniform marching resolutely up and down the green.

"It's the militia anthem," said Margaret sleepily, pulling him to lie next to her again. "He'll be back later to wake us up properly."

"How was that not a proper wake up call?" he grumbled, burying his head beneath the pillow to drown out the noise. Margaret didn't answer, having fallen back to sleep already. John tried to fall back asleep as well but wasn't able to. Breakfast wasn't scheduled to start until ten o'clock, which left rather a void to fill with idleness. Yet another thing to make him feel out of place here.

When the bugler came back an hour later, Margaret also decided she wasn't going to sleep much longer either. The two of them dressed and went for a walk over the estate.

The lawn was perfectly tended to, the trees and hedges shaped into smooth rounds. Everything about this place was perfect – too much so. The rooms inside were more akin to a museum than a home. How odd it must be to live in a place of such grandeur, knowing that it wasn't truly yours; you and your family were merely passing through, the keepers for this generation only.

Breakfast was a quiet affair and pleasanter than last night. The food was laid out carefully on the sideboard, the butler standing to attention beside it for no reason than John could see.

"We've the rest of the party arriving at one o'clock for the picnic. We'll all meet on the front lawn," announced Lady Calverton.

"Mr. Thornton, I was hoping I could steal you away for a bit before we leave. I've some marvelous volumes in the library I think will interest you. That is, if Mrs. Thornton doesn't mind," said Lord Calverton warmly.

"Certainly not, Lord Calverton," she smiled.

Margaret went off with the ladies for a stroll in the gardens, while John followed Lord Calverton into the larger library. The room was impressive; thousands of volumes lining the walls, some of them appearing to be very old indeed. Lord Calverton eagerly showed John his collection of works on cotton manufacture, proudly explaining that he had a deep interest in the trade. He was enthusiastic and knowledgeable enough that John was soon put at ease; the two of them discussing the books companionably enough.

Everyone went back upstairs to change again, the dress for the picnic being light coloured clothing. A marquee was set up, as well as small tables and chairs for people to gather around. The footman worked their way through the crowd with servers of refreshments.

John could think of nothing more boring than this; standing stiffly and people watching. Even Margaret was smiling glassily, but accepted sincere thanks over her gown – the accordion sleeves and printed violets gaining a number of accolades. She made sure to express that the fabric was produced by Marlborough Mill, hopefully garnishing more support for the milliners that stocked their fabrics.

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Charlotte took Margaret to visit with her children in the nursery before they went down to dinner. The baby girl was a year old, and Margaret could already tell she was going to have her mother's beautiful hair.

The other child was an older girl, who, at five, was too old to belong to both Lord Calverton and Charlotte, but Charlotte made no reference to it. She sat the little girl on to her lap and spoke as kindly with her as she did her own child. Clearly, she'd decided to accept all of Lord Calverton's past when they married, as she had implied when she confided in Margaret last night. Margaret was glad of that; it was a wonderful woman who would be so devoted to their husband's love child.

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Dinner was easier than it had been the night before, although there was far more people. Margaret was seated beside the local physician and passed the time chatting happily with him about his cottage hospital that was in the neighboring village. The courses were also more elaborate, and included a different wine with each one. They were only small glasses, but Margaret had barely anything to eat all day and could feel herself slipping. She stopped after the port, but the damage was done, which rather accounted for her behavior later that night.

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"Are you drunk?" asked John amusedly, watching her clumsily try and secure her nightgown.

"Only a very little. A different wine with every course! I'd forgotten that nonsense. It's a wonder they're not always drunk as lords." Margaret paused then snorted inelegantly into her hand. "Ha! I just understood that!"

John laughed. "I feel a little worse for wear as well," he agreed. "Lord Calverton was rather interesting, but the rest of the day just dragged on. How do they stand it?"

"I want to know how they can be so still all the time. All the ladies just spent their time sitting around. That's alright in its own way, but every day? It's a wonder they don't suddenly run screaming, desperate to do something outrageous."

John paused, halting himself from getting into bed, a shocking idea forming in his mind. "I think that's just what we ought to do," he grinned, pulling Margaret close and kissing her deeply. She tasted of madeira and oranges.

"Do what?" she asked breathlessly.

'Something outrageous," he murmured, kissing her neck. "Something reckless, to use up all the energy from today."

He ran his tongue against her ear, back to her lips. She pulled him harder against her body, molding herself to him.

"In the library," he whispered, voicing the fantasy she'd first spoken of in Yorkshire. Margaret stared at him, her expression torn between desire and cautiousness, before desire won. His own desire mounting, her took her hand and the two of them crept quietly down to the lower floors. There was no one about; everything was cleared, the lamps extinguished.

Propelled by alcohol and lust, the two of them were soon ensconced in the smaller library, Margaret sitting on the edge of the desk, her nightgown around her waist. He shoved himself into her frantically, both of them biting down on each other lips in an effort not to moan aloud. Margaret accidently dislodged a book in her passion; the thump of it landing on the ground sounding loud enough to wake the whole house. They both stilled their movements, John buried inside her, holding their breath in an effort to not be discovered.

They heard footsteps outside the door, both of them simultaneously remembering they had neglected to lock it in their haste. John grinned wickedly, and resumed his actions despite the heightened threat of interruption, pressing his thumb to her lips when she moaned. Margaret sucked his thumb into her mouth, eyes locked on his. She glided her tongue against him, becoming more ardent the higher she climbed. She came apart hard and he crushed her mouth with his quickly, muffling her cry.

She pushed him back, his body sliding out of hers. She knelt to the ground and took him in her mouth, the mingling of the two tastes causing her to grab wildly at his thighs. He pushed his hands into her hair, gripping tightly when she pressed her tongue against him in just the right way. She worked him quickly, gleefully and he shattered; collapsing with his hands on the desk in front of him. A whisper of noise and he had barely a second to grab the closest book and push Margaret further under the desk, before the door was opened by a footman.

"Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you," he said, calling up every bit of self-control he possessed to keep his voice impassive. "I just came in for a book."

"Of course, sir."

The door snicked closed again. John dropped to his knees and kissed Margaret ardently; both of them laughing soundlessly.

"Do you think he suspected?" asked Margaret breathlessly.

"I think I was pretty convincing," replied John smugly.

"Except for your wild hair."

"… Damn. We may have to tip him extra when we leave."

"It could've been worse. At least we're married; I bet he's walked in on far more scandalous lovers' trysts," said Margaret.

"That's an unpleasant thought; the fact that servants know so much about their employers lives. I bet some of them know devastating secrets about important people. I wonder if any would blackmail them?"

John stood and pulled Margaret to her feet. They both straightened their clothes, checking the other over amusedly.

"Maybe, if they we're bold enough to try. This story wouldn't be too shocking though, so nothing to worry about," said Margaret, smoothing down her hair as best she could.

"Wouldn't it?" chortled John. "'Manufacturer and his wife abandon duties to pleasure themselves in library of their benefactor'? Sounds like it would sell a few papers."

"Who says I was there?" grinned Margaret. "I was under the desk; he probably couldn't see me. So it would have just looked like you get too excited by libraries."

"Minx!"


	36. Chapter 34

A/N: Every time I read the reviews I get such a happy feeling. You are all so positive and supportive, thank you so much. I read them over and over again this week, which is probably why these chapters seemed to just pour out of me. Please enjoy and let me know more of what you think!

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Chapter 34

"If music be the food of love, play on"

The remainder of the visit dragged on. The lack of a full schedule was peculiar to John. And that the day was so oddly paced. A leisurely breakfast, milling around before luncheon, then a mad dash for the entire house and staff to ready everything for a grand dinner. It was strange to have the most trying part of the day in the evening. His evenings were the most relaxing part of his day.

They were currently listening to several people take turns on the piano, others singing along. All the performers were skilled but John didn't have enough of an appreciation for music to really enjoy it, apart from Margaret's piece.

Lord Calverton came and stood next to John, lifting another drink from a passing footman. "Your wife is a lovely performer, Mr. Thornton."

"Aye," John agreed, smiling slightly. "Far more proficient than myself."

"I as well. Never had much patience for the talent." He and John watched Margaret for a few moments more, before Lord Calverton asked, "Did the two of you meet in London?"

"No, in Milton, after she moved there with her family."

"I remember her vaguely from my own seasons there. I always remember her as being rather uncomfortable with everything, if that's not impertinent to say."

"She'd say as much herself," John acknowledged.

"She seems to have flourished away from London. The _Standard_ implied that the two of you ran the mill together, is that correct?"

"Aye. We have different areas of supervision, along with a few that overlap."

Lord Calverton hesitated. "May I ask; did you find that caused some contention? The public must've been a little… unkind about such an arrangement."

"The public has had a mixed response to it, but they treat her soundly for the most part. Margaret is hardy enough to challenge anyone who objects too strongly," John replied.

"I'm glad to hear it. We experienced something similar when I married Charlotte. Before her, I had no inclination to marry and a rather unsavory past. People said some truly dreadful things about the two of us. But I largely ignored it, as Charlotte was far more important than anything the gossips said."

"Margaret was cut by her extended family when we married," John admitted quietly. "Her mother still doesn't like me very much."

"Hmph. For ridiculous reasons, I gather; because you were not born into a life like this." It wasn't a question; it would've been obvious to Lord Calverton that John was out of place here.

"No, I was not."

"I envy you, and those like you. I feel rather stagnant. My father always told me that great things were expected of me, but also that I wasn't to actually _do_ anything. Made me positively livid when I was younger. I've mellowed now, largely thanks to Charlotte, and my children. But every time I open the newspaper and see the world moving forward, I'm reminded again. All I can do is invite those I admire here and try and glean from them how they've achieved what they have."

John regarded Lord Calverton with some surprise. He'd always had the impression that those of rank were able to do whatever they wanted, without consequences. But perhaps there were consequences, just not visible ones. Lord Calverton seemed content with his family, but he was also trapped in a way; by his position, his duty, the expectations placed on him.

That was what Margaret had said she'd given up. When he'd arrived and seen how magnificent a life like this was, he had despaired that Margaret might begin to think differently, especially with her friend talking with her. But Margaret had been exposed to the restrictions too, and her dislike of those far outweighed the status of having dozens of footman and garden parties every other week.

John felt upset about how he'd treated her over this visit. She had rather ignored his feelings, but that was no excuse for his insecurities. She'd told him many times how she felt. Despite his promise during their last fight, he'd let this status issue get to him again. He had tried not to show it, knowing he was being irrational, but wasn't successful. Luckily, Margaret was not the type to bring up old arguments, and had understood why he had been irritable.

"Speaking of which, you said on your first night that necessity got you into your industry. What necessity was that?" asked Lord Calverton.

"My father died when I was young and left us with nothing. I had to have employment to care for my family. I had read about the economic turn, and saw the factories that were being built as fast as they could be. People poured into the city looking for work, and they got it. I saw the way Milton was heading and decided to immerse myself in the trade in the hopes of achieving some stability for my family again."

"How is it you came to own Marlborough Mill?"

"I worked hard and was economical in my dealings. I pushed my way in when I needed. I was ruthless but I don't regret it. I'm proud of my achievements."

"So you should be," Lord Calverton said admiringly. "That is an amazing feat. Very few people can say they truly started from nothing and achieved the success you have."

John inclined his head, accepting the compliment. "Thank you, Lord Calverton."

.

.

.

"Are you being well treated downstairs, Caoimhe?" Margaret asked while she was pining her hair.

She saw Caoimhe smile in the mirror. "Yes, ma'am. Only it's funny to be called 'Miss Thornton'," she giggled.

Margaret grinned, she too having forgotten that custom. "The meals must be very crowded affairs. I don't think I've seen the same maid twice since we've been here."

"There's about fifteen. The 'ead housemaid is a bit of a terror. She's forever grumblin' about th' footmen, which seems fair to me. They seem to only stand 'round and open doors. But one of them is Irish, and very kind."

"Ah," replied Margaret knowingly.

"Not that sort of kind!" she cried, blushing furiously.

Margaret giggled. "I don't mind if you have a beau. I know some households discourage those things, but I don't see why you can't have fun if you want."

"A few here do too. Not much secrets in a house like this. Even about all th' visitors." Caoimhe frowned slightly. "They've heard you talk to me some. They say it's odd, that you dinna call me by my last name."

"I suppose it is," replied Margaret, concerned. "Some might see it as discourteous, since a lady's maid is an upper servant. Your given name is so lovely, and I got into the habit of addressing you that way. But if you find it disrespectful, of course I will –"

"Not at all, ma'am! I dinna mind. I was surprised is all, that they cared how things are done in your house. And that everyone here always seems t' be at war with each other. There's so many people that little groups can form, which exclude others. At the manor, everyone gets along."

Margaret was beginning to wish they hadn't come to Walton Park. All three of them were thrown off balance by the imposing place. She'd been rather thoughtless over the whole affair. Lord Calverton did put John a little at ease because he was truly interested in the mill, even though he was unable to completely relate. He was not one that John could debate with or ask for new ideas.

"Only one more night, then we can be back to the familiar," said Margaret, to comfort them both.

"Where are ya going today? I saw they were pullin' out all the carriages."

"An arboretum had opened in the village and we're all off to tour it. That might be fun, actually. There's a section of trees that've been brought in from different places around the world."

The expedition was interesting, but was over in an hour, the arboretum not being very large. They had hours to spare before the next event.

"Shall we walk back?" John asked her. "We could walk around the lake as well."

"Good idea," Margaret smiled. They waved off the carriages, promising to meet the party back at the house. The day was overcast, but the sun soon appeared, making them question their decision as they were both soon sweltering hot in their layers of clothing. Thankfully, the trees along the banks of the lake provided a measure of cover.

There was a rather large drop down into the lake on its far side. Margaret peered over the edge to see the water, sunlight streaming through the trees. She looked towards John and saw he was removing his outer clothes.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, baffled.

"Going for a swim," he said, a mischievous smile on his face. "It's incredibly hot and there's no one about."

Before she could even protest, he'd kicked off his shoes and jumped off the ledge into the water. Margaret leant over the edge, gripping a tree branch tightly to steady herself. He resurfaced, grinning widely. He was treading water, propelling himself backwards.

"Come on. Your turn," he called.

"I don't know how to swim!" she exclaimed, shaking her head at him.

"Everyone knows how to swim."

"Ladies do not."

"You're not a lady; you are the wife of a tradesman," he grinned. Margaret smiled wryly, glad they could joke about the issue now.

"Jump!"

"What if there are fish in there?"

John laughed at her nervousness. "They'll eat you, of course."

Margaret made a face at him. She _was_ hot, and John made it look fun. She took off her things, leaving only her shift on. She crept carefully to the ledge and tried to gauge the depth. John was still treading water so it must be fairly deep.

She took a deep breath and jumped. Margaret sunk like a stone in the silty water, water lilies tangling around her. She kicked her legs hard, pushing herself upwards. She broke through the surface of the water, gasping, only to be splashed by John.

She propelled herself clumsy towards him. "You knew that would happen!" she accused, spitting out water.

"No I didn't," he laughed. "How was I to know you were heavier than I?"

"I am not! Come here so I can drown you."

John laughed again and swam out of her reach. She followed him, her movements awkward. But the frigid water felt wonderful, and the two of them enjoyed themselves. John found a shallower area and pulled her towards him, kissing her soundly.

"Tell me this isn't far better than attending a tedious garden party," he said.

"It is," Margaret agreed. "And I'm glad my attire works both ways!"

"I should think they'd collapse simultaneously out of sheer indignation if they saw you now. Especially old Lady Merton."

Once it got too cold to stay in the water, they pulled themselves on to the bank and sat together in patches of sunlight, staying out of sight until they dried off a bit. Margaret had lost most of her hairpins and set about raking her fingers through her hair in an effort to find the remainder, and loosen the tangles.

"You should wear your hair out like that all the time," said John admiringly. "You look like woodland fairy."

"It would get terribly messy. It's hard enough to control as it is."

Margaret braided it quickly so that it might be tucked up out of sight beneath her bonnet. They stayed until they were both reasonably dry and it became late enough to walk back. She hoped no one would look too closely at their disheveled appearance.

A grand ball was planned for tonight, with a light supper afterwards. Margaret was not a skilled dancer and John had only a few lessons at school; so neither were particularly excited about the evening. Although, she was very pleased about her new gown and judging by John hungry gaze when he saw her, he was too.

"You must promise not to let go of my hand. I'm sure to make myself look ridiculous," he muttered.

"Of course. If the dance is too complicated, I'll pretend to feel faint and you can carry me off," she grinned, pulling him down to kiss her.

"Oh, how lovely you look, Margaret!" exclaimed Charlotte when she and John came into the great hall. "You've such an eye for fashion. Why, you must put your own designs into the print factory. People would love them!"

"I had not thought of it," replied Margaret in surprise. "But it's a good idea, and I'd enjoy doing that. I'll have to see if it's possible."

Charlotte had thoughtfully taken into account the diversity of her many guests. None of the dances were more complicated than a waltz, so the evening passed more smoothly than Margaret thought it would. John was a graceful dancer despite not liking the activity, and the party was large enough to cover any missteps they made.

"I'm thankful I never had to try and court a woman this way," John mused. "I'm terrible at dancing."

"You're better than you say you are. And you think you wouldn't have wanted to hold me this way when we courting?" she asked amusedly. "That's why people like it; it's the only intimate thing that is allowed before marriage."

John gave her an amused look. "We were far more intimate than this."

"Shh, don't say it like that!" she giggled.

.

The morning they left, Margaret gave Caoimhe a purse of funds to distribute among the servants who had attended to her and John, Caoimhe more likely to remember who it was who had done so. The trunks were packed in good time and a footman came up to carry them down to the carriage.

The staff, Lord Calverton and Charlotte assembled on the stairs to see them off.

"Please write, if you have the time," said Charlotte, kissing Margaret's cheek. "I'd love to hear from you."

"Of course," smiled Margaret, pleased to be reunited with a friend.

"Be sure to tell us of your next great scheme," said Lord Calverton warmly. He and John shook hands, then John helped her into the carriage.

"It was not what I imagined. But nor was it a terrible experience," John stated.

"Some of that was my fault," Margaret sighed. "The next trip we make will go far smoother, I promise."

.

.

.

Unable to put Fanny off any longer and her wedding fast approaching, Margaret and John took her for the long-promised visit to Mr. Harris's estate shortly after they returned from Northumberland. They stayed overnight in London so that Fanny could be measured for her wedding attire, then continued on to Horsham.

Mr. Harris greeted them eagerly when they arrived. He was in his element and talked enthusiastically about his plans for the estate. The house was a lovely one, done in a warm Tudor style, and had a surprising number of greenhouses; Mr. Harris having a passion for orchids and sunflowers, in addition to his many tenant farms.

John and Margaret were rather abandoned for the next few days, but neither minded. Fanny was pleased to be able to view her new home and was full of suggestions for it already. Mr. Harris took her out to ride often on an ancient palfrey that followed his own mount sleepily, giving Fanny an easy way to learn to ride.

.

They arrived back in Milton in time to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Margaret was excited by the gift she'd done for John. It was a paper anniversary so Margaret decided give him a watercolor painting she'd done of the mill. She'd spent weeks working on it in secret, wanting to get every detail perfect, and had it framed in an ornate silver frame.

John woke her on the morning of the seventh by pressing gentle kisses along her spine, rolling her over so he could kiss her lips. She smiled lovingly at him.

"Are we going to stay in bed all day?"

"If I have my way," said John, kissing her again.

They did stay in bed for most of the morning, lovemaking and talking.

"I think we done a good job at being married so far," observed Margaret.

"There was a lot more ups and downs than I thought there would be; of a different kind than I was expecting. But we've achieved at great deal," John agreed, smoothing his palm across her shoulders.

She shifted closer to him and pressed her lips to his sweetly. "I love you."

"And I you."

.

They went down for a leisurely lunch then John took her into the library so he could give her the gifts from him. He'd gotten her first editions of _Sense and Sensibility_ and _The Lady of the Lake_ , to her delight. She watched him tear off the paper of his gift eagerly.

He laughed happily when he saw the painting. "Thank you, my love. It's absolutely perfect. I think I'll hang it in the office rather than the house, it's a far more fitting place for it."

Margaret grinned at him. "I already had fixtures put in above the fireplace in there."

They received gifts from their family too, Mama and Papa giving them a set of books, Mother gave them some lovely paper boxes, Fanny some handmade paper flowers. Fred had sent them a vintage map of Spain done in coloured inks. Even Mr. Bell sent them a gift, sticking his nose into someone else's affairs, as was his prerogative. But the gift was actually a very thoughtful one; a sheaf of exquisite stationary paper that had the initials of Marlborough Mill embossed on the pages in a watermark.

She and John went to the theatre in the evening, where a travelling production was putting on _A Midsummer's Night Dream_. It was not one of Margaret's favourite plays to read, but seeing it on stage was great fun.

.

Fanny monopolized Margaret's time for the next few weeks, claiming to want her help with the wedding but largely rejecting Margaret's suggestions. She changed her mind about the colours she wanted, and caused such a fuss over the invitations that they were almost late. When her wedding gown was delivered, she declared it was nothing like she wanted; Margaret spent hours embroidering the bodice to suit her, for which she received no thank you. Mother resolutely told Fanny to stop wasting time and money, which rather caused a row in the household. John didn't really care about the expense but did see Mother's point of being nonsensical over the purchases – Mother made him pick her side when she told Fanny off. Margaret was annoyed by Fanny's behavior but didn't want her to leave the house in a cloud of arguments.

Margaret kept having to reschedule her appointment at the milliners several times due to Fanny changing her mind about the colours she wanted her wedding party to wear, causing Margaret to resolve not to buy anything new, but simply work one of her current gowns around the colour scheme when Fanny finally settled on it.

"I can't bring myself to say anything disagreeable to her," Margaret told John. "These are the last weeks she'll spend here; I want her to be happy."

"She's being rather spoilt over it. But I agree. This is the last expense for her, I might as well let her have what she wants."

"If she continues this petulance with Mr. Harris I hope they have the fortitude to work through it. I'm sure he's seen this side of her already but it might still be rather draining," worried Margaret.

"I think she'll be more mindful towards Mr. Harris. She's not bothering to reign herself in because she knows I'll let her spend whatever she wants," John observed.

"There might be truth to that. Why did you let Fanny spend wildly when you're usually so meticulous over finances?" asked Margaret curiously.

"I'm not sure really. When she got old enough to choose her own things and I had money for her to do so, I went a bit overboard, to make up for her poor childhood. And then whenever she asked again, I couldn't bring myself to say no, and then it spiraled, due my never having drawn the line," he mused. "And the reason I made money in the first place was to take care of her."

"I'm sure I would've done the same thing if it had been me. Even if the result was my be screeched at all the time," Margaret sighed.

John chuckled lightly. "Aye. I've been comforting and distressing myself by saying, 'it's only for a little while longer'."

Fanny ultimately settled on pink and burgundy for her wedding colours, so new flowers had to ordered again. She marched the maids resolutely to the church to explain how she wanted the bouquets and sashes arranged, the poor girls run off their feet. Mr. Harris and his best man came down two days before, as did Edith and Charles. Edith was glad to see her friend marry (even more so as it was largely her doing) and pleased to see Margaret again.

The morning of her wedding, Fanny rapped smartly on John and Margaret's bedroom door at a ridiculous hour, demanding to borrow Margaret's dressing room, as well as Caoimhe.

"Catharine's a nice girl but Caoimhe is much better at doing hair. I'm going to advertise for my own lady's maid as soon as I get to Horsham, none of this housemaid business…"

"Oh, my god. She's not hiding in here, Fanny," Margaret groaned. She didn't think inviting Fanny to her rooms on occasion would make her think she could come and go as she pleased. "Go and ask her to come to your room, you've a dressing table in there."

"But yours has such better light! And it's my _wedding day_."

"Christ. If I never hear the word 'wedding' again, it'll be too soon," grumbled John, flipping the pillow over his face.

"I _heard_ that –"

"Fanny, go _away_."

"No, we have to get to the church at nine, John, and it'll take me hours to get ready!"

Margaret sighed. "Alright, fine. Give me a minute." She slid inelegantly out of bed and pulled on her robe. "If this is what having a child is like, I'd sooner not bother," Margaret said to John in undertone.

"Hear, hear," he muttered, burying himself under the covers to try and catch a few more minutes of sleep.

Margaret opened the door groggily. Fanny pushed her way inside looking irritated. "We need all the time we can get; it'll take ages for us to be presentable. Especially you, did you not sleep well last night? You look ghastly, you'll have to put some powder on…"

Margaret took a deep breath to calm herself and followed Fanny into the dressing room, ringing for Caoimhe as she went. This was Fanny's last day in this house, and she was excited and nervous about her wedding day. Fanny, like John, sometimes said rude things unintentionally when nervous; Margaret decided to let her be.

Caoimhe arrived, a little miffed at having her breakfast interrupted, and further annoyed by Fanny's shrill demands. She took her cue from Margaret and didn't say anything, simply listening patiently as Fanny described the hairstyle she wanted. John soon gave up on trying to sleep; he called out that he was going to go down to the drawing room to wait for them. Fanny's bridesmaids arrived shortly after, the gaggle of them fussing over Fanny and increasing the noise tenfold.

Margaret decided to leave them to it and fled down to the drawing room to hide with Mother and John.

"You look a little worse for wear," John observed, grinning at her cross expression.

"I had to leave before I got a headache. I don't want to sit through the wedding with one."

"What a noise they're making," Mother grumbled.

They seemed to be able to talk and work at the same time, as they were all down on time. The ushers arrived on time as well, and Fanny handed out the favors she'd made for them. Due to Fanny's rather large wedding party, two carriages were needed for everyone to travel to the church, leaving the servants to walk along.

The carriage was a tight fit with all the ladies' wide skirts. John looked particularly uncomfortable in the dark grey suit and high starched collar Fanny demanded he wear. Margaret tapped him with her foot and they shared an amused smile.

Margaret had to admit that Fanny's bossing had been for a good cause – the church looked beautiful, and the colour scheme was memorable and striking. The users and groomsmen hurried inside while Fanny and her ladies when off to the side rooms to wait for their cue. John kissed Margaret's cheek, then followed Fanny through. Margaret walked quickly to the front pew, waving at her parents as she went.

Mother was escorted up the aisle by Mr. Harris, both smiling proudly. A buzz of conversation ran through the room, unchecked for quite a while as Fanny seemed to believe in making everyone wait for the bride.

Finally, the music swelled and Fanny appeared with John, the two of them walking together slowly. Fanny only had eyes for Mr. Harris. John looked proud and a little sad; his father ought to have been the one performing the ritual.

The service was a simple one, the words having been spoken by thousands of couples before them. But the pair at the alter were clearly not thinking of that; the two of them staring happily at each other, their fingers linked together. Margaret had never seen Fanny look more elegant than she did now.

At the conclusion of the service, while the new Mr. and Mrs. Harris signed the register, John leaned closer to Margaret and said; "How well they look. Fanny seemed to shed her petulance as we walked down the aisle. It was rather odd to see, but I'm very pleased that she'll be so happy."

"Me too. I don't think we could've wished for a better match for her."

The wedding breakfast was held at the manor, and full of fun and laugher, as benefiting Fanny and Mr. Harris. The gifts reflected their personalities too, many of them being amusing things, and only a few practical household items. John and Margaret stole the new couple away for a few moments to give them their gift. It had been John's idea, and Margaret executed it, having more knowledge in this area. John took Fanny's hand and let her to the stables, where a lovely chestnut palfrey was waiting for her.

Fanny gave a happy squeal and flung her arms around John's neck. "Oh, thank you! She's beautiful!"

"I thought you ought to start your life in the South in style," John grinned.

"I certainly will! How handsome she is," said Fanny admiringly, patting the horse's neck.

"Indeed. A perfect ladies mount," acknowledged Mr. Harris, also reaching out to pat her.

"She's a little older than one normally buys, but I thought that would be good while you're still learning," supplied Margaret.

Fanny smiled at her. "Thank you."

"We'll arrange for everything to be packed up in a few days and ferried to Horsham, including the piano. And Urquhart will ride the horse down for you," said John warmly.

Fanny and Mr. Harris had decided to spend their honeymoon at the estate, so that their home might be full of the happy memories, a romantic and noble idea that Margaret was proud of her sister-in-law for.

Fanny released the horse and came over to them. "Thank you for all this. I know I've been difficult these past weeks, and before. But you've given me such a wonderful experience and it meant I'm to have the life I do now. I know I don't show it, and I probably won't again, but I'm very grateful."

"You're very welcome, Fanny," said Margaret, embracing her. John did too.

"Enjoy your new life. You deserve this happiness," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.


	37. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

"To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first"

Mother came into the drawing room as soon as Margaret left for church. She got straight to her point.

"John, I have a question for you about your marriage. I'm curious as to why Margaret is not yet with child."

He almost groaned aloud. He knew this conversation would come up soon or later. Mother had been eying Margaret oddly for weeks, ever since Fanny's wedding.

"It will happen soon enough. We've not been married long." The evasiveness of his tone – he did not want to talk to her about _this_ – made Mother suspicious.

"John, is everything… alright between you two?" she asked carefully.

"Of course it is," he said irritably. John knew his irate retort would not appease her; she would interpret it as a confession to problems in their marriage bed. "Everything is _fine_ ," he stressed, attempting to return to the newspaper. "We are happy with what we have, we're perfectly fine together."

"I just want to make sure that everything is as it should be. Most women are pregnant in the first few months of marriage," she said, scowling at him meaningfully.

John gave her a serve look of his own. "What are you implying? Our marriage has been consummated, and there is nothing untoward. We are just enjoying being with each other for now."

Mother narrowed her eyes at him. "John, if you are doing something sinful…"

John leapt to his feet, angry and embarrassed. "Mother! We aren't! What we have is beautiful! We talked it through and we want to wait a bit longer before we have children, that's all. I don't want to hear any more about this."

.

.

.

Only a few days later, a similar conversation took place between Margaret and her mother when Mama invited her over for a visit.

"Is…" Mama cleared her throat nervously. "Is John… kind to you, Margaret?"

Margaret was bemused by the question. "Of course, Mama. I wouldn't have married him if he wasn't kind to me."

"I don't mean that way. I mean... is everything alright between you when you are… intimate?"

"Of course."

She was not convinced. "I only ask because... Margaret, it's been almost two years, and you are still not with child," she reminded her anxiously, her forehead wrinkled with worry.

"Only fifteen months, Mama," retorted Margaret, rolling her eyes at Mama's exaggeration. "It's not an issue. We've talked this through. We want to enjoy each other's company first, before we have a child."

"But… how are you ensuring – Margaret, are you you using _medicine_ to prevent yourself from having a child? An abortifacient?" asked Mama, horrified.

"No! Mama, I'm not doing anything like that. If I become pregnant, I will be sublimely happy, as will John. We are just… our private life is our own, Mama; I don't want to talk about it. But please be assured we are not doing anything untoward or dangerous."

Margaret was in a temper when she returned home, as John had been when his mother had an almost parallel conversation with him. She told him what had happened while they were preparing for bed.

"I know you said our intimate relationship was only between us, but now I can see that is no longer true," she said muttered.

"Clearly," he huffed. "Do you think the collaborated over it beforehand? It is suspicious timing."

"Maybe. I don't think I convinced Mama that I wasn't using a herbal remedy to keep myself from having a child. If she tells Mother her suspicions, she'll be in a towering temper; then we'll know they did."

"Oh. I hadn't thought they were thinking of that. When Mother asked if we were doing something sinful, I assumed she meant… physically."

Margaret snorted. She blew out the candle and lay back against him; only the pale moonlight illuminating the room. "You have to admit, at face value, the things we've done so far have been quite sinful… the erotic books and pictures, the positions… having sex in places other than our bedroom – or even our own house." She turned to face him, smirking. "All those evil words I can get you to say, when I touch you just so…"

He grinned widely. "You say my voice is seductive, but your words always put the most delicious images in my mind." John shifted closer to her, pressing their bodies together. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think we need to explore all those things again right now. Just to make sure they really are wicked. Just to be certain, of course."

"I agree. After all, we should be quite sure, shouldn't we?"

"Absolutely sure," he rasped, rolling himself on top of her.

.

.

.

"Margaret, will you come in here a moment, please?" Mother called from her parlor, catching Margaret before she was able to leave for the hospital.

"Oh, lord. Sounds like I'm in for a telling off," Margaret sighed. "I wonder what I've done wrong this time?"

"You know perfectly well what it is she's going to ask," John whispered back.

"Not children, surely? She didn't ask for you as well."

"I think she knows I won't be so accommodating."

"And I will?"

"More than I. I fairly bit her head off last time."

"You're going to leave me to face her wrath alone?"

John grinned and began edging toward the staircase. "I am an extraordinarily busy man and don't have time for such trifling matters," he said loftily.

"You can't just _leave me_ –"

"Margaret." Mother's voice sounded again, more commanding this time. John hurried down the stairs, laughing under his breath. Margaret rolled her eyes. She walked stiffly into Mother's parlor, her hands laced together tightly. This was going to be uncomfortable.

Mother was looking at her severely, a letter in her hand.

"I've had a letter from your mother. I want to talk to you about it."

Margaret sighed. She knew Mama thought she was looking out for her best interests, but she'd also ignored Margaret's explanation, and her request to leave the subject to be private.

"Yes?"

"Your mother and I are a little concerned by the fact that you are not with child yet, especially since you and John are so companionable. It's not as though you are still warming up to each other. Your mother is of the impression that you are using a tisane to prevent this. I can't say I agree with her, as I don't believe it to be in your nature. But I cannot deny that you of all people would have knowledge and access to such things. I would like an explanation, if you please."

Margaret took a deep breath. "I'm not using any remedies. The answer is simply that John and I are not together very often, because we want things to settle down over the factories first."

She wasn't angry at Mother over this, but was rather annoyed at Mama's meddling into her private life. However, their concern was understandable and she tried to keep that in mind as she explained.

"It's been months since the take over," said Mother, not convinced.

"Things are still being smoothed out. We've that enormous order due next month, and the dinner party is then too –"

"Margaret, I don't deny that you're busy, and work harder than most women I know. Forgive me for being blunt, but it seems as though you are using these things as excuses. A child is certainly a time-consuming thing, but your life won't stop once you have one. Your cousin Edith manages her engagements perfectly well."

Margaret hesitated. She hadn't thought of her reluctance like that. She bit her lip, trying to think. "I'm not dreading it, if that's what you mean. I want children very much. But you might be right that I've been putting it off rather uncompromisingly."

"Why?" demanded Mother.

"Because I don't feel at all prepared, and I don't know why I feel that way," Margaret admitted quietly. "It's not as though we don't have the money to care for children. I wouldn't even have to do anything once they're born, not if I didn't want to; as I know Mama will push me towards… But I want to care for them myself, and I can't do that and work at the same time. If I have a child, won't it undo all the progress I've made?"

Margaret flushed. The words just poured out of her. She'd never really put much thought into her feelings of unpreparedness before, but now that she'd spoken the words, she knew them to be true. She didn't want to give up everything she'd achieved over the past two years.

"Of course it won't," said Mother crisply. "You'd certainly have to take a break, but nothing says you can't go on as you do now. A nursemaid can look after them while you're out, and there's plenty of hours in the day. That's how men do it, after all. The spend their day at work and come home to their children in the evenings. I see no reason why you can't do the same."

"I don't know if I could relinquish them like that," Margaret worried. "I hated my nursemaids, and it always seemed like my parents never had time for me when I was that young."

"What about when they're older and need to be sent to school? Or university? Are you never going to let them leave the house?" Mother asked shrewdly.

"No," huffed Margaret. "I just don't know how I'd handle it, and I hate not knowing…"

Mother gave a little laugh, one of the few times Margaret had actually heard her do so. "I'd say most mothers feel as you do. I did. There's no rulebook for children, no order that must be followed. When you made your masks, when you learnt to paint, you didn't get it right the first time, did you? You experimented, saw what worked and what didn't –"

"Having a child isn't an _experiment_ –"

"Of course it is. Not the decision to have a child, of course, but the raising of it. You learn as you go, and adjust what needs to be done. No mother on earth does everything for their child perfectly the first time. If that's the standard you're holding yourself to, you'll never feel ready."

Margaret stared at her mother-in-law, shaken. That's exactly what she'd been doing, without realizing it. That's how she did everything – she considered it carefully, researched, studied, then made a decision. She was not impulsive by any stretch. She remembered the first time she'd spent time with the babies in the foundling home; how nervous she'd been and how many mistakes she'd made, but then fixed once she was shown how. How she'd thought of an idea and just did it without second-guessing because it was important and needed to be made quickly.

Margaret had a sudden moment of clarity. She'd been holding out for perfection, when that was absurd. Not that she should fling herself into it haphazardly, but Mother was right – if she boxed herself in, she'd never learn.

"You're right," Margaret said slowly. "That's exactly what I was doing, without even noticing. We _are_ busy but… you're right in that I've been using that to avoid thinking about it. But I will think on what you've said. And I will talk to John as well."

When John came home that afternoon, she must've still looked troubled.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked her concernedly. "I hope Mother wasn't harsh. Was I wrong to leave you? I was only joking –"

"No, nothing like that," she assured him quickly. "In fact, she was helpful. Rather too helpful, as I'm now feeling rather flustered and upset."

"Helpful? In what way?" he asked in bewilderment.

"She asked me why we were waiting to have children and I told her the reason, that we're busy, but she also suggested I was using that as an excuse and I think I am. I was waiting until I was going to be the perfect mother and she reminded me that there's no such thing."

John frowned, coming to sit next to her. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Neither did I, until she said it. That's why I'm upset. I knew I wasn't ready, but I didn't examine _why_ I felt that way. Now I don't know what to think."

"You'd be an amazing mother. You're wonderful with the mill children."

"Perhaps. But those aren't my children; it's different," she sighed. She thought for a moment, then asked; "Do you feel prepared?"

"I don't know. I think I'd be nervous, but I do want children, so I'd be excited too," he replied smilingly. "Besides, you being prepared and my being prepared are very different. You're the one who who must carry the child."

Margaret made a face. "Yes, I'm nervous about that too."

"I think it's normal to be nervous, but that shouldn't be what holds you back from it."

"That's what Mother said as well. I think I have to work through this a little more, but… I think I feel better about it than I did before," Margaret mused.

"So a tentative yes, for now?" he asked her, a wide grin spreading across his features.

"A tentative yes," she agreed.

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John was on his way home for lunch a few days later when he saw the school children all crowded inside the storage shed looking like they were up to mischief. Some were crouched down, trying to reach between the wooden piles, all of them chattering excitedly. He saw Miss Evans in the crowd when she stood up from looking beneath the stacks.

"Is everything alright?" John asked, coming over to see what the fuss was about.

"There's a cat under there!"

"We saw 'im run in from the street."

"The children thought he'd get hurt in the shed so we've been trying to coax him out. But we can't reach him," said Miss Evans.

John knelt down and looked under the stacks. There was a cat under there, crammed in on itself. John stretched out his arm and dragged out the kitten by its scruff, the tiny thing making a racket that was entirely disproportionate to its size. It was the ugliest cat John had ever seen. It was a multitude of colours, missing half its ear and only had one eye.

"Isn't 'e adorable! Can we keep 'im, miss?" pleaded one of the little girls.

"No, dear, I think he's a stray."

"Yer not gonna drown 'im are ya, master?" gasped another. "That's what mean old Bricker did when his cat 'ad kittens."

"No. I'll give him something to eat then send him on his way. There's plenty of things for him to catch outside."

A chorus of 'aww's' followed him to the manor, the children upset at the loss of the kitten. John held it firmly, taking him down to the kitchen. Mrs. Roberts gave the cat a bit of ham, which he ate in one bite. They fed him a bit more, then John picked him up to take him back outside.

The little thing had other ideas, however. The warmth and food seemed to have bolstered his spirts and he was soon struggling to get free. It escaped his hold and shot up the back stairs. John cursed and perused him. The cat scarpered down the landing and into the drawing room. As soon as it saw Margaret, he hid behind her skirts as if knowing the person most likely to be sympathetic to his plight.

Gus growled at the trespasser but ruined the effect by wagging his tail happily when he went over to investigate the new animal.

"I hope you won't do that with a real threat," John told him severely.

"Where did you get a cat?" ask Margaret, cautiously picking him up; he began to purr enthusiastically.

"The mill children found him. I was giving him something to eat, but he got loose."

"He's lovely!"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" John grumbled. "It's a stray cat that wandered in, and now he ought to wander back out again."

"You would never be so cruel, John," Margaret teased. "I think he's cute."

"Aye, his one eye is a nice colour," he said sarcastically.

Margaret laughed. "Well, I like him. And he doesn't look as though he belongs to anyone. In fact, he looks a little young to be out on his own. I think we should keep him."

"Oh, Margaret, no. If you want a cat, we'll get a proper one."

"How is he not a proper cat?"

"He's a street cat, for one thing. God knows what sort of manners he has."

They bickered briefly; Margaret wanting to keep the ugly thing, John wanting it shunt back outside. Margaret won, and so now they had a bloody cat.

Margaret named him Loaf ("He looks like a burnt loaf of bread! Especially when he tucks his feet up under him." "You are banned from naming our children.") and he lorded over the house. He claimed the dog's blanket as his own and would sit stubbornly on it and stare down Gus when he tried to reclaim it. Gus would bare his teeth or pull at the blanket in attempt to disturb him, but the cat didn't move one inch from his new throne. Gus, knowing he was beaten, huffed and lay dejectedly down on the extreme corner of the blanket in a tight ball.

The cat didn't meow like others did, it simply opened its mouth and screamed for attention. He had no other volume than loud angry yowling. The cat adored Margaret and would always jump onto her lap to be petted whenever she sat down.

Margaret fed him up and checked him over for sickness, then let him sleep in their bed. John firmly discontinued that after he accidently rolled over the cat when it was hiding under the covers, and got scratched for his trouble.

They let him roam the courtyard – the school children were very pleased with their new pet as well. John also knew that he was beaten.

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The day after the Thornton dinner party, both Margaret and John slept late, having had an exhausting night.

"I always forget how taxing these things are until they roll around again," Margaret yawned.

"Once a year is more than enough," John agreed. "Maybe not even then."

"I don't know how Harkness does it. He has parties like that every month it seems. No wonder he always looks so grumpy. Although, his suppers are never as grand as Mother's."

"Don't tell him that. I couldn't stand going to a party at his house for any longer than we do now."

Margaret snorted. John was never going to be a social being, for which she was rather glad. She didn't want to surround herself with superficial people, any more than he did.

"What do you say we go away?" he said unexpectedly. "To relax. Go on an adventure."

"Where?"

"Italy. I was thinking Tuscany. For a month or so. The busy season is over, it's a good time to go."

John's tone got more animated towards the end of his sentence, the idea taking firm hold of him. Margaret levered herself onto her elbow so she could stare at him.

"How long have you been thinking of this?"

"A while. I've always wanted to visit, but I only thought seriously about it in the last few weeks. I think we should. We can visit Fanny and Mr. Harris on the way there, spend a few days and see all her plans in action."

Margaret smiled, the idea beginning to take hold of her as well. She'd heard such wonderful things about the region and had a list a mile long of the things she wanted to see there.

"Are you sure we can be away from both factories for that long?" she asked.

"Williams and Anderson have a good handle on things, and will know what to do if things come up."

Margaret agreed on that; both of the overseers were excellent at their jobs. She voiced another thought that had sprung to mind when he mentioned the plan. "One last holiday before children?" she whispered, kissing his collarbone.

He smiled gently. "Aye, I was thinking that too. We've both become more eager since you and Mother spoke. It'll be your final word as to when, of course, but I feel like the time is right," he said, lifting his hand to tuck her hair back.

"So do I," she said softly, brilliant dreams filling her vision. "I've thought on it a great deal. I'm nervous still, but I've been imagining it more and more. And I'll have Mother to help me, and ask for advice. And a nursemaid for a bit later, even though I'm going to be beyond discerning about who we hire. But there's always books to study and I can ask Mr. Jenkins and Sister Hurst all my questions, they deliver babies all the time and –"

John cut her off with a bruising kiss. "Think about all that after we get back," he laughed. "For now, let's focus on making preparations for Italy. And the fun we'll have making the baby!"

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*Author's note: I don't have issues with contraception or abortifacients. The practice wouldn't have been encouraged or common in the Victorian era, hence the opinions of Mrs. Hale and John's mother. The herbal remedy implied by them is Queen Anne's lace, a toxic plant that can be used to induce abortion, and also as a dye for cloth, which is why Margaret might have access to it.


	38. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

"Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, and so am come abroad to see the world"

The sea voyage from Dover to Calais was mercifully calm. Margaret had never been on a ship before, but knew from Fred it could be hideous in certain weathers. Thankfully, the waters were calm and the air was only a little chilly.

They weren't going at the most fashionable time of year, but that would mean it wouldn't be as crowded. She and John had spent the last weeks of September making arrangements for their travels and teaching themselves Italian phrases. Some of the words and grammar were similar enough to French for Margaret to get a fair grasp on it, and John had a particularly good memory for the language.

They also read travel guides so that they could plan their sightseeing and pack accordingly.

"This one advises ladies to 'wear as few petticoats as possible, as the heat is far more alarming than anything one has experienced in England.' Why not discard them all together and wear trousers instead?" she said mockingly.

John snorted. "You'd be barred from the ship if you did that."

"Why? _Vivandières_ wear trousers under their short work dresses. You could pretend to be a solider and I'll dress as _Vivandière_ ," she grinned.

"And what, say we've lost our battalion and took a detour into Tuscany?"

"You never know. The Austrian garrison is still there, maybe we could blend in with them."

They had left Dover in the early morning and arrived in Calais mid afternoon. From there, it took them a week to get to Florence, breaking their journey in overnight stays in several towns and cities along the way.

The two of them arrived at their hotel in the early evening, as the last leg of their journey had been rather delayed. They went straight to their rooms, forgoing dinner, as neither were in the mood to sit down to a meal.

"How did my aunt do this every summer? There's not a mode of transportation we haven't been on. I never want to sit in a carriage again," grumbled Margaret, sprawling herself on the bed. "I can still feel my teeth chattering from the rattle it made."

"Aye, that last road was rather terrible," John agreed, putting down the cases and slumping down next to her. "Tomorrow, we'll walk over the city instead."

"Thank god."

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When John woke the next morning, it took him a moment to remember where he was. He could hear church bells and people calling to each other, the sounds of wheels on the ancient cobblestones; all of it echoing up to their window from the narrow road below. Instead of irritating him, the noise made him grin. He was thrilled to be here, his and Margaret's first time abroad. Even in his wildest dreams, he'd never imagined one day having enough time or money to do something as grand as this.

This was to be their second honeymoon, their final luxurious holiday with just the two of them. They'd made the decision not lie together this month past, so that they might be even more passionate for this trip and have it be more like a honeymoon.

He was also excited for them to become parents. Margaret's nerves had given way to a feeling of intense excitement and longing. Despite her promise that they hold off on plans until after they returned from Italy, John caught her furtively reading a book on childbirth that she'd ordered from London. She probably had a list of baby names hidden away somewhere too, he thought amusedly.

He'd taken the book from her and put it on his desk. "None of that. Focus on us, for now at least. Imagine we're newlyweds, off to be together for the first time."

"Imagine? I never lost that feeling," she said sweetly, almost making him break their pact.

He woke Margaret gently, kissing his way along her slender body. She sighed drowsily; he smiled and ran his tongue further down her body, wanting to wake her up in the most pleasurable way possible.

"Oh god…," she moaned. "You didn't waste any time."

"You've been making me wait too long," he whispered against her thigh.

"It was _your_ idea – oh, right there, don't stop…"

They took turns pleasuring each other, until they were both completely spent; the heat that threaded through the air making them appear even more so. They waited until they'd cooled down some, then dressed and ventured outside to explore.

"What a labyrinth. We'll get hopelessly lost before this over," John mused, taking her hand so that they wouldn't lose each other in the crowded streets.

"That's half the fun of it," Margaret smiled.

They walked across the river and found themselves in some beautiful gardens that were a perfect blend of uniform and wild. They wandered around aimlessly, not in a hurry to do anything today.

It was most certainly a city of warmth and sun. The buildings seemed to be lit with sunlight, many of them painted wonderful Tuscan golds and oranges. He and Margaret passed so many interesting shops and landmarks that John wished he'd bought a notebook with him so that he might remember where to find them again.

They ate a late lunch in a café, the waiter knowing enough English to make the process easier. On the way back to the hotel, the sounds of music from a cathedral drew them towards it. The doors were open and a few people were milling about the entrance.

The interior of the cathedral was breathtaking; it was light and airy, a wonderful example of Renaissance architecture – the opulent columns holding aloft large archways. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous room as they walked slowly towards the alter. The fresco in the dome of the alter was done in fiery reds and oranges, bringing the world outside into the cool colours of the church.

The choir was practicing, their hauntingly beautiful voices filling the rooms with music. Religious artwork hung on the walls. One of them was a depiction of the martyrdom of the church's patron saint, the painting so full of people it was rather hard to focus on the supposed subject of the work.

"Some of these Renaissance painters illustrated the human body so oddly," Margaret whispered. "The men have muscles that have been drawn on arbitrarily, without any physiological reference."

"The angels look realistic. And so does that group of women in the foreground. Maybe the men are supposed to look mortal and the women godlike," he grinned.

The cathedral also held the tombs of the Medici family. These rooms were enormous as well, set with huge marble tiles that were almost as tall as John; the tiles done in the same earthy tones as the alter. The names of the Grand Dukes were carved into the stone above each enclave.

When it grew darker, the shadows lengthening along the marble floor, John and Margaret left the cathedral and ambled back in the direction of their hotel. They crossed the river at the _Ponte Santa Trinita_ , stopping in the middle to take in the wonderful view.

Back at the hotel, they ate cucumbers and olives dipped in oil, bread and cheese, and an excellent wine that John could still taste on her when he kissed Margaret for hours afterwards.

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Over the next few weeks, they visited galleries and museums, viewing artwork that Margaret had only even dreamed she'd get to see. The two of them were almost drunk on the beauty of the city, and the beauty they found in each other again.

John had been mostly joking when he suggested they abstain from each other, until they felt the throb of yearning that ran between them every night, reminding them of the emotions they'd had before they wed. Like their first honeymoon, it had the promise of pleasure, but it was heightened now, as they truly knew what it was they was missing. And now that they were here in this intensely passionate city, Margaret was glad of the suggestion.

Every day they discovered a wonderful new thing in Florence – a quaint alleyway where old Tuscan ladies sat on stools and gossiped with their neighbors; a shop that sold cheese that was so tasty it was the reason cheese was invented; a royal library with thousands of old manuscripts, watched over by wizened librarians.

The churches were magnificent, comforting their people with beautiful richness and rituals. She and John explored many of them, admiring their delicately wrought monstrances and censors, and detailed religious artworks. They went to a mass, standing in the back of the crowded church so as to not be in the way, and found themselves swept along in the current of music and prayer.

Walking back to the hotel from the mass, Margaret said; "The names of the churches here sound so much more luxurious. St. Lorenzo is far more appealing that St. Lawrence."

"The words seem much softer, don't they? It's such a fluid language – all the sounds rolling together," John mused.

Margaret found a cosmetics store that had been in operation for nearly three hundred years. She brought a few items, more due to the sentiment of it. They spent an entire day admiring the huge collection housed in the _Uffizi_ gallery, viewing works by artists that had previously only been names to them – Botticelli, Michelangelo, Caravaggio.

They climbed to the top of _Giotto's campanile_ , admiring the enormous bells and drinking in the view of the _Piazza del Duomo_ below. Margaret filled her sketchbook with quick pencil drawings and swatches of colour, intending to expand on them when she returned home.

Being in a city like Florence, an ancient place of artists, craftsman and kings, it was easy to get swept up in the energy of everything, the pulse of beauty that beat within it. It was rather like Milton that way.

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In addition to the many galleries and museums, the two of them also had a particular interest in the many workshops of Florence. He and Margaret went to a paper making factory, a perfumery, a ceramic maker and a leather maker. They saw Florentine goldsmiths and cobblers at work, both of them impressed enough by the craftsmanship to buy several items.

They visited a silk workshop, the fabric still completely handcrafted on eighteenth century looms. It was an exclusive store but they'd managed to get an appointment to view the workers at their tasks. The owner looked to be as ancient as his looms. His English was heavily accented, but he understood well enough, and became even more accommodating when he learnt that John was a textile manufacturer as well.

"My products are nowhere near this quality of craftsmanship," John told him. "I have to make hundreds of ells a day."

"Ay, a capitalist! _Si_! None of that here, but great work!"

John snorted at the term, even though it was a fairly accurate one.

The proprietor showed Margaret a grey silk, telling her it was perfect for her colouring. Margaret's face lit up when she saw it. John thought it was beautiful too – the cloth was incredibly fine and moved like water. She bought several lengths of it, the owner assuring them he'd give them a generous discount.

In restaurants, they ordered traditional Tuscan foods, wanting to try as many as possible. They ate pastas, vegetables, wild boar; all of it drowned in herbs and oil. They indulged in _zuccotto_ and _cantuccini vin santo_. Some days they ate nothing but bread and olives. And other days they spent locked in their rooms, drinking wine and licking honey from each others bodies.

They explored each other as if they hadn't done so before, finding new ways to please each other. They'd never lost their passion for one another, but being away helped remove distractions and focus at their attention on the other. Since they decided to not hold back any longer, each exploration ended with John buried inside her, moaning her name; Margaret pleading for more of him.

It was warm enough that they flung open the windows every evening, and in the morning, the sun was burning hot, light spilling across their bed. The two of them made love half asleep and almost dreaming. He woke an hour later to find Margaret laying across his chest, his body still inside her. John kissed her deeply, feeling himself harden again and they continued as if there had been no interlude.

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After a month in Florence, she and John journeyed to the hills on the outskirts of the city, where they'd rented a private villa for ten days. The house was small and perfectly square, hewn from stone. It was situated high on the mountain, the face so steep that there was no drive; they had to carry their cases up hundreds of stone steps cut into the mountain.

The caretaker met them at the door, bestowing a wry smile and a crate of groceries on them, before he took off back down to the winding road. The villa was very old, the plaster flaking, the paint faded. Water had to be pumped up from a hand pump at the bottom of the garden and carried in buckets to the kitchen. But instead of grumbling about these things, Margaret considered them another part of its charm.

Cool winds blew through the open house, the windows and doors having been strategically placed to allow for that. Because the house was so exposed to the elements, there was almost no furniture, only a few chairs, a table, a sagging sofa and a bed with an iron frame, the structure creaking obnoxiously when Margaret sat down on it.

"Oh dear," she laughed. "I'm not sure if I'm annoyed or amused by that. It'll certainly make things interesting."

"We don't have to restrict ourselves to the bed," John said roguishly, leaning down to kiss her.

She and John were truly alone here. There were no neighbors for miles, no servants tending to them. When it came time to make dinner, it took twice as long and involved twice as much laughter, neither of them skilled at it. Luckily, most of the things the caretaker had provided them with were vegetables, cheeses and meats, so there was no great mystery about how to cook them.

They drank an entire bottle of _Chianti_ between them, the alcohol humming through their bodies. They stayed in the kitchen, John lifting her up to sit on the edge of the countertop. Neither removed their clothing, the frustration of having so many layers between them heightening their ardor.

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They did very little in the villa, except chat and enjoy the view; all of Florence and the far off Tuscan landscape sprawled beneath them. It was refreshing, to do nothing for once. This would normally bore him to no end, but John didn't feel like he was wasting time, only savoring it. He and Margaret kept to their own schedule, the time of day having no meaning. With no restrictions on them at at all, they made love in every room in the house, and even out in the back garden on the woolen blanket stolen from their bed; their hot bodies and cool midnight air a wonderful mix. Some days they didn't even bother getting dressed.

For his birthday, Margaret made him dinner, the recipe taken from a Florentine cookbook they'd bought. They ate it in bed and then moved hardly any as the sank into one another. Margaret had him keep his eyes closed so that he wouldn't be able to see where she kissed him, the unknown amplifying everything so that when she finally eased her mouth over him, he almost came apart instantly from the anticipation.

Before, he'd memorized every mark, every rise and slope on her body, and did so again now. Margaret could draw his body from memory, and did so often during their stay. Able to devote their time entirely to each other, and more knowledgeable and confident than they'd been on their first honeymoon, they learnt each other perfectly. John kissed her so long and often that he was never without the taste of her on his lips.

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The journey home was a peaceful one. Their time away had been one of the most beautiful experiences of her life, but Margaret didn't feel sad to be leaving, not when they were going home for the next joyful step in their lives.

Their intimate relationship had been different this honeymoon. They were wiser and knew what they wanted; there hadn't been any of the fun awkwardness of before. They had been more eager, more demanding of each other, which made everything more pleasurable. John liked when she relinquished control to him, letting him lead, unless she was the one who had made the first move, in which case he loved that she so forward with him.

There was hardly any teasing. John would simply wake her with his tongue or whisper that he wanted her; or Margaret would shrug out of her robe and lay back, offering herself to him. With no one for miles, they'd been stormier, more daring, and Margaret discovered that she loved that – when he bit at her skin or held her just a little too tightly. It gave her the security of knowing that he was still as enamored by her body has he had been when they first lay together.

Away for their busy lives, their day revolved around pleasing each other – they woke the other up with kisses and tongues, pleasured each other until they fell asleep exhausted, only to begin again. They found each other in the warmth and seclusion. They were whole again, and that would bring about the next amazing chapter in their life.


	39. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

"For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy"

Margaret woke in the late hours of the morning feeling as though she'd spent the night being pitched up and down on a rocky sea. She barely made it to her dressing room before she threw up; having to retch into the bathtub as it was closer than the commode. She quickly turned on the icy water and washed the bath and rinsed out her mouth. She was glad John was already at the mill; she didn't want him hovering over her yet, not until she was absolutely sure of her suspicions.

She'd missed her last course, but that wasn't completely unusual, she had missed it once or twice over the years and nothing had come of it. Her next one was due in the coming week, but this new development – violent morning sickness – made it look more likely that it would not make an appearance. She'd been sleeping later as well, feeling unusually tired, even when her day had not been particularly demanding.

She knew John had been watching her carefully since they'd returned, concerned by her lethargy. He probably guessed what it meant, especially since they'd done almost nothing else for almost two months, but was waiting for her to tell him before he asked her.

Margaret stood up carefully, but the sudden nausea had disappeared. She actually felt better than she had in days. She stripped and quickly washed herself with the cold water, wanting to remove the layer of sweat that had beaded onto her skin as a result of her sudden sickness. Once dried and dressed in clean undergarments, she rang for Caoimhe to help her dress.

"How are ya feelin' this morning, ma'am?" Caoimhe asked her while lacing up Margaret's corset.

"Better, actually. The queasiness is not as conspicuous anymore."

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath as the tightening of the corset pressed against her sore breasts. That was a new symptom too, having not been so apparent in past weeks. Caoimhe stilled her task at Margaret's pained gasp.

"What's tha' matter?"

"Just a little sore is all." Caoimhe eyed her suspiciously, a smile forming on her face. "Don't start," said Margaret, with a secretive smile of her own. "I shall have to wait a bit more be absolutely sure."

"I dunno, seems to me like anymore waiting would be pointless. Unless ya dunna want't tell the master until you give birth!"

Margaret laughed, joy bubbling up inside her. "I won't wait that long. Just two more weeks."

"He'll likely know anyway," said Caoimhe, tying off the laces loosely so as to not make Margaret uncomfortable. "Master watches you like a hawk."

That was true; John came home for lunch, watching her questioningly as she pilled her plate high with food and ate every bite. She wanted to make sure she ate well, for the baby. She could barely keep a smile off her face. Mother looked bemused by Margaret's grin, given that the three of them were talking about the ice that had frozen over the canals, delaying the cotton deliveries.

Margaret's next two weeks consisted of only two things; sickness and forgetfulness. She hadn't known that absent-mindedness was a symptom of pregnancy, but she supposed it was because her thoughts were always consumed by thinking of the child growing inside her. She asked Caoimhe to bring her ginger preserves from the kitchen. She sucked small amounts through the day, which helped calm her fitful stomach. The date for her next course came and went and it did not appear. It looked as though it was time to tell her husband.

She stood in her dressing room, Caoimhe having just left with her wrinkled clothes from the day, and examined herself in the mirror. She pulled the fabric of her nightgown taunt against her, to see if a bump was visible. Seeing none, she gently pressed her palms to her abdomen. There was no firmness yet, but she was undaunted. Margaret had all the indicators of pregnancy, including an odd feeling she couldn't even begin to describe. It was as though an invisible string was threaded from her heart to her womb, getting stronger every day. It was similar to the feeling she had towards John, only not as solid yet.

Margaret looked up to see her reflection was grinning manically. She snorted at herself. She shrugged into her warm dressing gown and tiptoed carefully along the cold floor and into the bedroom. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate; John stoking it up, shivering in his own dressing gown.

"I can't believe how cold it's been lately. The Mediterranean climate gave me unrealistic expectations for this winter," he grumbled. "Get under the blankets quickly, before you freeze."

"In a moment. I want to tell you something first." She bit her lip, trying to control her grin.

"What?" he groused, his mind still on their chilliness. He hated being cold; it reminded him of his unhappy youth.

Margaret shifted closer to him and took his hand. Smiling radiantly, she gently guided John's palm to her belly, holding it there beneath her own.

"What are y –" His head jerked up to look at her. "Are you – are you certain?" he choked.

She nodded fervently. John's face lit up. "Oh, my god. Truly, you are sure? I know you missed your last course, but you've done so before."

"I'm sure, my love. We're going to have a baby. A beautiful child all of our own," she whispered, tears of happiness threatening to spill over.

John gave a laugh of pure joy and swept her into his arms, swinging her around in a circle, both of them laughing jubilantly. He released her, scooping her into his arms and laying her on the bed. Margaret shook her head amusedly as he began to fuss over her, making sure she was tucked under the covers; retrieving the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and spreading it over her.

"How are you feeling? You've not been sick, have you?" he asked anxiously, climbing in next to her and pulling her close.

"A little, just a few times in the morning so far."

"I didn't know that! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up before I was absolutely sure."

"Margaret," he groaned. "Please tell me from now on. I want to know everything. I want to take care of you properly, and I can't do that if you hide things from me."

Margaret laughed lightly and pulled his arm down so she could pillow her head on it. "I'm fine, really. I've been taking things for the sickness, and the soreness is –"

"What soreness?" he interrupted, alarmed, putting his hand back to her belly.

"Darling, please calm down. All of this is normal. I will tell you if something unusual happens," she promised.

He relaxed slightly. He began to rub her stomach, pressing down carefully, as she had done. "I can't feel anything yet. Can you?"

"No, it's too early. My book says that I will only feel him quickening at four months, and it's only been two. But you won't be able to feel it until a bit later, when he's stronger."

John frowned at that. "You must describe everything to me. I want to experience this with you."

"Of course I will," she assured him sleepily, her eyes closing almost involuntarily. "We'll tell Mother and Mama in the morning. Then we can start making plans."

"Aye, my love." He snuggled closer to her, keeping his hand on her belly. Just before she drifted off to sleep, he said softly. "I'm so happy, darling. Thank you for this. I won't let you down."

"You could never do that, John. Just be your wonderful, amazing self, and we will be fine," she murmured.

.

.

.

John watched his slumbering wife, himself unable to unwind enough to sleep. A vague sense of panic was present, in contrast to Margaret's serene happiness. He did trust her when she said all her symptoms were normal and that she was in no undue discomfort. But he also knew that it would not always be the case. There was nothing stopping it now; she would give birth to their child soon – in July by his reckoning – and be subjected to excruciating pain as a result.

As he lay there in the darkness, his panic over this threatened to engulf him. Before, childbirth had only been an abstract thing to him. He'd been away at school when Fanny was born and had not been told anything about it, only receiving a letter from his father explaining proudly that he now had a baby sister.

But now that Margaret was pregnant, there was no way around it. Ever since she'd been hurt in the strike, he'd known he was not able to handle Margaret in any pain whatsoever. He pressed his lips to the small mark on her temple, the scar having never completely faded.

If there was a way from him to endure it in her stead, he'd do it in a heartbeat. The fact that she would be in that much pain almost made him retch. He swallowed repeatedly and hugged Margaret closer to him. He must get this under control. It wouldn't do for Margaret to become stressed herself. He'd talk to Mother about it; she'd have some useful advice about how he could make all of this easier on his love.

.

Margaret went to visit her parents in Crampton during the day, and the two told Mother their joyful news that evening. Mother bestowed a rare smile on the pair of them.

"That's wonderful news. I'm happy for you both. How are you feeling, Margaret?"

Margaret outlined her symptoms, grinning when Mother confirmed that it was certain she was with child. Mother also saw John's pained expression when Margaret spoke of her soreness. After Margaret seated herself at her writing desk to write to Edith and Fred, his mother drew him aside and asked him what was wrong.

"Are you unhappy about this, John?"

"Certainly not! This is wonderful news; I am overjoyed that I am to be a father. Only… I am afraid, of the trial Margaret must endure to provide me with our child. It seems so unfair to ask such an enormous thing of her. It wasn't until she confirmed her pregnancy that I realized how much this upset me. What can I do, Mother, to help her?"

"Nothing, John. Margaret knows what's going to happen. There's nothing to be done except suffer through it," replied Mother crisply.

"Surely there is something, some tincture for the pain," he asked, his voice half-pleading.

"None that will help with pain of this intensity. Don't worry, it'll be finished before you know it, and you can visit her as soon as it's over so that you can see for yourself," said Mother amusedly.

"Visit?" repeated John, surprised. "I want to stay with her. I don't want to let her out of my sight!"

Mother gave him a shocked look. "You can't stay with her. Childbirth is a private matter between the mother and the midwife."

"You can't expect me to wait outside the door while my wife is in agony!"

Their whispered conversation had become louder in his tension, causing Margaret to look up in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

"Mother had just informed me that I can't stay with you during the birth!"

"I – well, husbands don't, as far as I know," stammered Margaret, also surprised by his tenacity.

"But I must! I'll be driven mad otherwise," he insisted.

"Childbirth is an incredibly private procedure. I'll not tell you all the details, all I will say is that it is very chaotic. It will cause Margaret more stress to have you present, trust me," explained Mother.

John looked at Margaret, wanting her to confirm this. She was flustered, unsure of how to appease them both. "I don't know enough about it to make a decision yet. I know that it is… stressful. And I've never heard of a husband being present for the birth. But because you feel so strongly, I will think on your request. And I reserve the right to change my mind later to whatever I want, even as it's happening."

"Of course," nodded John. "But I do want to be there, if you feel comfortable enough with it."

"Margaret, I don't usually disagree with John–" the couple snorted in amusement "–but I can tell you with confidence that you will not want anyone with you that is not the midwife or your mother."

.

.

.

When they were alone, John asked Margaret, "Are you sure you don't want me there? There's not a single part of you that I haven't seen – or even kissed, for that matter," he said wryly.

Margaret sighed. "I'm still not sure. You will be a comforting presence, I know, just as you are now. But we're both inexperienced in this matter and I want to surround myself with people who know what they're doing. It will ease my own nervousness. I've been told it's a dreadfully messy business… blood and… all kinds of things… but perhaps I will be too far gone with pain to care about how it will look."

"Don't say that, please," he moaned. "I can't bear to think of you suffering like that."

Margaret looked at him sympathetically. "I know you're afraid, darling, but there's nothing that can be done about it. It'll only be for a few hours, so don't worry too much."

"You might as well tell me not to breathe," he snapped. His eyes bulged as he took in all of what she said. " _Hours_?"

"Yes, the book says ten hours is most common."

"God, no," he whispered in a strangled voice. "Margaret… that is… I cannot be away from you for _ten hours_ while you are in such agony. I _must_ stay with you. I'll – I'll order you if I have to."

Margaret grinned, about to make a joke about his insistence, until she saw his expression. He looked as though someone had pressed a dozen candle flames to his skin; the same burning stare he'd given her when she'd refused his proposal. A lump formed in her throat. She had laughed to herself on their honeymoon, that he'd hover anxiously over her when she finally became pregnant, but this was far more alarming that she had imagined. She lifted a hand to his face lovingly. He lent into her touch, his eyes closing in discomfort.

"John, the birth is only a small part of our life. There will be so many more wondrous moments to balance it; during my pregnancy, and after when our child is born. Ten hours is a small price to pay for a lifetime of happiness. But if it will ease your fear, then, yes, you can be in the room with me. But I also need to warn you that I probably won't be completely sure until it happens. So let's leave if for now, and focus on all the exciting things to come."

John nodded, his breath evening out. He kissed her fervently, then lay his head gently against her chest – his gesture when needing to be comforted – and she stroked his hair, the two of them falling asleep at long last.

.

The following day, Margaret wrapped herself up warmly and went to the hospital. When she arrived, she saw Sarah, to her delight. Margaret hurried over to her, where she was crushing willow bark in a mortar.

"Sarah! I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Margaret! You're looking very well. I can see you immersed yourself in the Tuscan sun," she replied, admiring Margaret's golden skin.

"It was far hotter than here, that's for sure. How have you been?"

"I've been rather busy, actually. My father has begun seriously teaching me the business; the ledgers and ordering and such. I don't have much of head for figures so it's been a bit time-consuming. But I'm going to take over in a few months, since Father's rheumatism is worsening. I'm going to keep with my hospital work too, but only on Sundays now, and if it's really busy in the evenings," said Sarah.

"I'm so pleased for you," Margaret smiled. "You've been wanting to do that for years now."

"Aye, I'm excited. I doubt I'll have any problems with the customers, I've been working there for years so I'm a familiar face. And I think a woman would be a more comforting presence for the female customers. They might be more willing to speak with me than a male apothecary."

"I think I would," Margaret mused, thinking of her own medical needs that would soon come up. "I like Mr. Jenkins very much, but more because we're friends. I would prefer to have a woman tend to me, I think."

"Me too."

She and Sarah spent the day preparing medicines, serving lunch and reading newspapers to the patients in the recuperating ward. Margaret didn't tell Sarah about her pregnancy, wanting to wait a little longer before it was announced outside the family.

The sky was dark with storm clouds when she left. Margaret was grateful for the many layers she'd put on this morning. John had been right when he said they'd become acclimatized to a more moderate temperature while they'd been away. In the drawing room, she shrugged out of her thick coat and hung it close to the fire, the first pattering of rain having caught her briefly.

The door opened and John hurried inside, looking annoyed. "I saw you walk in the gates; where did you go? I couldn't find you all day!"

"It's Monday," Margaret reminded him confusedly. "I was at the hospital."

"Why?" he demanded.

"What do you mean, _why_?"

"I can't believe you went to the hospital! You do realize you're pregnant, don't you?" he asked furiously.

"Don't patronize me," said Margaret crossly. "I know that. It's perfectly fine for the work I do."

"I don't care," he growled. "I don't want you going anymore, not now."

"You can't stop me, John. You told me that I could do as I wish."

"That is not the same thing!" he insisted. "Now it's more than just you; it is my child, our child, that you're risking."

"I am not –"

"It's dangerous, Margaret! What if something happened to you, what if you caught a disease or accidently ingested some medicine?"

"I've been going there for over two years, and nothing like that has happened to me or any of the other volunteers."

"You weren't as vulnerable before."

"I'm not an invalid. I've not taken leave of my senses just because I'm now with child. I'm still being careful. And how is it any different to my mill duties?"

"You won't be doing those either. I'll take over until the child is born," John told her firmly.

Margaret's mouth fell open. "Have you _completely_ lost your mind? You want me to shut myself up in the house for the next seven months, is that it? You've finally got me with child and I must be a dutiful wife now?"

" _Finally_?" he snarled, giving her a nasty look.

"For god's sake, you know I didn't mean it like that," she snapped. "You know as well as I do why it's only happened now. I can't believe you have the gall to speak to me like this. You want me to give up all my work because you _demand_ it?"

"That is _not_ what I meant!" he fumed.

"Then what did you mean? I'm not going to wait passively at home for you, John. I'm going to do this because it's what I want."

"And what about what I want? We're supposed to talk things through; that was our agreement!"

"We didn't talk! You ordered me straight away! I'll not be ordered by anyone, not even you!"

"I can hear the two of you shouting from across the house!" Mother fumed, blustering into the drawing room. She was dressed in her best gown and still fastening a bracelet to her wrist. "Margaret, sit down, please, before you overexert yourself."

That pronouncement made John go shockingly pale; he took Margaret's arm and lead her to the sofa, gently pulling down to sit beside him.

"Margaret –"

"I'm fine, John," she replied shortly. She was thankful for Mother intervening; she'd forgotten herself in her anger. "I'm not done arguing with you."

"That's fine; but we're going to do it here, quietly."

She scowled at his words, when it was he who started shouting first. She blew out a breath, trying to control her temper.

"I don't see why I can't keep with it, not if I'm careful," she insisted.

"Keep with what? Not the hospital, surely?" said Mother, alarmed.

"Not you too," complained Margaret. "I wasn't doing anything dangerous! All I did was serve food and read the paper. I was even sitting down for most of it."

"Margaret, I don't think that's wise," said Mother disapprovingly.

Margaret glared at her mother-in-law. "You told me I could continue as I did before."

"I did, but I also said you would need to take a break. That's what you ought to do now."

"And I will! After he's born –"

"It must be before, Margaret," John insisted. "I trust that you're being safe, but it's everything else that is risky. Please, I don't want you to go."

"This is the last time I'll be able to go to the hospital for a long time. It's something I enjoy, John, and I want to keep with it, even after the baby is born. I'll wait until he's older before I go back, but I will go back." This was exactly what she'd been afraid of – giving up her life. "I don't want to sit at home and fill your house with children. I want more than just that."

John sighed. "That's not how I meant it. I know it sounded like it, so I'm sorry for that. But I agree with Mother that you need to step back from everything for a while. I'm not suggesting you've become weak all of a sudden, but you _will_ need to do things differently, Margaret, you can't get away from that."

Margaret blew out an annoyed breath. She never did well when she was censured, and she could feel two sides of herself warring – her impulse to defy them because it wasn't what she wanted, and her desire to do the right thing by her child. She could see their point though, which made her more irritable.

"I suppose I was careless," she finally acknowledged grudgingly. "I wanted to prove to everyone – and myself – that having a child wouldn't change anything. But perhaps I went about it in the wrong way. I told the truth that I was being safe, but I see your point." She thought for a moment. "I will go and speak to Mr. Jenkins tomorrow. I will tell him I'm with child and ask him if it's safe for me to continue. If he says yes, I'll come back and we'll talk about it some more. But if he says no, then I will follow his advice. And if I'm to give up the hospital, I'll not give up my mill duties. They're nothing physically taxing."

John looked as though he wanted to argue, but could find no fault with her conditions. "Very well; that's a compromise I can live with. But please, be very careful. If you feel the least bit tired or ill, tell me so I can take over."

"Good, now that's settled," Mother stated firmly. "Now, I've been invited to the Carmichaels for dinner and I'm going to be late if I don't leave now. Margaret, put your feet up for the evening or you'll be incredibly tired tomorrow."

Margaret grit her teeth as Mother left the room. She didn't want to be treated like a glass doll from now until July. She was able to feel her own limits.

Margaret turned and glared at John. "Why must you always go for the hardest course first?" she complained. "You can never just talk reasonably to me about something, not when you're truly angry."

John exhaled heavily, thinking. "I'm not doing it on purpose. I suppose it's because I've never been accountable to another before. I've been the head of my family since I was sixteen. I made the decisions. It's a difficult habit to unlearn. Most of the time we're so in sync that it doesn't matter, but when we disagree strongly, as we have done now, my mind sort of… grinds to a halt trying to deal with it. I'm sorry that I lash out sometimes. I _know_ that I do it, and I'm trying to stop myself."

Margaret thought on that. She thought it a reasonable explanation. John had been raised by a headstrong woman, but one who also believed in the correct order of things. One of those things was John being in charge, not Mother. John was a commanding person by nature, but most of it directed at himself, and why he drove himself so hard. But he also never cared when people said Margaret had too much freedom and authority in his business or his life. Margaret knew that he loved that they were partners, true equals. But every once in a while, the commanding side of him would be directed at her. Although, she was satisfied by his assurance that he was aware of it and was trying to take steps to be more reasonable with her.

"I'm the one who's pregnant. I can feel when it's too much. You must trust me, John," she told him, more calmly.

"I do. But it's because I can't feel it – or even see it – that I reacted that way. I've no reference for what is acceptable for you to do. I'd rather err on the side of caution," he said, his expression anxious.

"We will," Margaret assured him, taking his hand, his look of fear softening her. "We'll read the books and ask questions. But you must also trust me when I say how I feel."

"I will," he promised, leaning his forehead to hers.

.

.

.

Margaret's pregnancy progressed steadily over the next few months. She'd gone to Mr. Jenkins as she told him she would, and was told that she shouldn't continue until after the child was weaned. Margaret had grumbled over that, but understood it was what was best for their child. She continued with her landlady duties and was often in the schoolhouse, when they weren't making plans for the birth. She was miffed that John had been right, but not much, as she did want to do all she could to protect the child. John felt he'd been right in insisting, and was appeased that he and Margaret had come to a compromise that worked for them both.

Christmas was celebrated in style, in response to the happy news. Their two families spent Christmas week together, except for Fanny and Mr. Harris who had gone to spend their first Christmas together in London. John and Margaret received many – and often conflicting – opinions and advice from both sets of parents. The couple decorated the tree happily, chatting excitedly about next Christmas, when they would be able to do the activity with their child. Edith arrived with her husband and stayed for three days, bringing her own son along at the family's insistence. She and Margaret secreted themselves together and talked eagerly, Margaret peppering her cousin with endless questions about her own pregnancy.

Curiosity drove John to ask Charles how he had dealt with the birth.

"Us men don't do much," he laughed. "I paced the drawing room for hours, 'til I was finally let up to see her. Gabriel was so tiny; he could almost fit in the palm of my hand. And Edith was up and about quick as anything. She's a strong sort. Likely Margaret will be too."

John grimaced slightly. He had been going to ask if Charles had wanted to stay with his wife, but it was clear from his tone that he was rather removed from the whole event. In fact, they both seemed to be a bit removed from their child. Gabriel was cared for by his nursemaid for the majority of their visit, only being brought to see his parents for an hour or two in the evenings. John knew this arrangement was perfectly common in upper class families, but he knew he wouldn't be able to be so hands-off with his own child. Margaret too, wanted to do everything herself.

But it was clear that Charles and Edith loved each other very much, they were just less physical about their affection. Whereas John could not truly be happy unless Margaret was close enough to touch.

Margaret's morning sickness continued on and off until January. Scents she used to be indifferent to now propelled her out of the room hastily, hand over her mouth. Boiled carrots were no longer allowed at the table, nor was coffee. Even the scent of burning coal caused her to gag. She craved steak of all things – John watched in amazement as she steadily ate her way though two every dinner for about two weeks.

Once her nausea had passed, they made love gently. He had worried that he would hurt her or the baby, but Margaret assured him that it was fine until the later months.

He watched every tiny change in her body with unguarded glee. She gained a bit of weight, and her breasts grew larger. Putting on a corset was now the most detested part of her day. She brought a maternity corset for later in her pregnancy, as well as larger gowns; a beautiful buttery coloured one was John's particular favourite.

.

In late February, Margaret startled John awake when she sat up suddenly, grasping her belly.

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently, also sitting up hastily.

"I think I felt him!" She had a faraway look in her eye, her hands unmoving against her skin. John quickly put his own palm against her. "It feels like…" Her expression changed and she moved her palm further down; she gave a small laugh. "It's like bubbles bursting inside. Or a feather brushing against me."

To his disappointment, John couldn't feel any discernable movements; but he was pleased by the funny metaphors she gave him. Margaret started to cry joyful tears, much more sensitive to any emotion these days. But this time, John felt like crying too. He circled his legs around her, and she buried her face against his neck.

"It's real now," she sniffed. "A baby. A tiny little baby with ten fingers and ten toes, and the deepest eyes that one could drown in; just like yours."

John pressed quick kisses to her temple. "The child will be beautiful no matter what, my darling, since they will be half of you."

.

They began to plan the nursery so that it would be finished in time for the birth. They chose the largest room on the third floor, so that it would be large enough for a play area, as well as all their future children. Margaret picked green, grey and white striped paper for the room. She spent almost all of her spare time either sewing clothes or painting bright scenes to hang in the room. She also dug though her hope chest and unearthed her own silver teething ring and rattle. John carved wooden blocks and animals.

A rocking chair and small bassinet was ordered, and a bookcase that was filled with children's literature. A high chair was also purchased, causing a row between Mrs. Hale and Margaret over whether the child ought to be fed in the nursery by the nursemaid or by Margaret in the breakfast room. John stayed out of that argument; his wife was far more liable to fits of temper now and he didn't want any of it to be directed at him.

A delivery of a huge carton in March caused all family members to be completely nonplussed, as nothing more had been ordered. The three of them stood in the courtyard and stared at the contents of the box. John, having pried open the face of it, had to stand back in amazement.

"What on earth is it?" asked Margaret, bewildered.

"It's a crib," replied Mother, looking distastefully at it.

"It looks nothing like any crib I've ever seen. They're all rectangular, with bars… This is…"

"Hideous," finished John.

The legs were curved, supporting a wide oval cradle that was made to look as though it was built with woven reeds instead of wood. A carving of a dove was perched at the foot of the cradle, peeping in to see the child. The back of the crib was almost as tall as John, the section stretching up to form a dome. A figurine of an angel in a flowing robe stood atop the dome, holding the canopy from which silk or velvet curtains were meant to be hung.

There was only one person of their acquaintance who would give them such an ostentatious gift. "It's from Mr. Bell, I'm sure of it," he said. A letter placed within the crib confirmed this suspicion. Mr. Bell congratulated John on his vitality: 'even though it was far later than anyone was expecting!'

John screwed up the note irritably. "I'll find out where he got it and send it back as soon as possible," he announced.

"Must we? I think it could grow on me," said Margaret, running her hand along the edge of the cradle to feel the smoothness of the finish.

"You can't be serious," said John incredulously. "It's dreadful."

"I think whimsical is the more appropriate word. The cradle reminds me of Moses's basket. And the dove is sweet!"

"It won't match anything in the nursery," Mother warned her.

Margaret was determined to keep it, however. Despite two against one, Margaret still won. The heavy crib was accordingly carried up to the nursery and put in the middle of the room at a perfect distance from the fireplace. She hung grey silks from the canopy and made linens for the mattress. John couldn't understand her fondness for it, but admitted that she did manage to make it look as though it belonged in the cheerful room.

Margaret had also begun to show. She had the most delicious little bump; the slightest curve over her belly that was definitive proof that his child was growing within her. She and John spent hours in the evening talking to the bump, telling the child stories and describing their day. The baby continued to flutter within her, but John was still not able to feel it. Margaret tried to mimic the feeling against the sensitive skin of his forearm, pattering her fingers in time with the child's movements.

.

John lazily drifted his hand over Margaret's belly while she sketched. She was practicing drawing faces, using John as a model, wanting to improve her technique so she could draw the baby. She'd done several so far and they had laughed wildly over the results; his eyes too close together, or his mouth amusingly lopsided.

"Ugh," she groaned. "Look at your nose! It looks like a beak."

"How dare you. I'll have you know I have a perfectly handsome nose, thank you." He snorted at her comically. She giggled at him, then stopped suddenly, her hand going to her belly.

"There he goes again; he's been rolling about in there all day," she said happily. Her eyes widened when she saw that John was holding perfectly still, his mouth hanging open slightly. "Did you feel that?" she whispered.

John nodded slowly. "Aye, I think so. The tiniest hint of it." Margaret moved his hand higher. They waited for a moment, then both grinned when they felt the twitches from within.

"He likes your voice," said Margaret smugly. "He's always most active when you're home."

"That's the most amazing feeling. I can't believe there's an actual tiny baby in there!"

Margaret laughed. "He won't stay tiny for much longer."

She was right; her body grew quickly over April. It seemed as though every day she was bigger than before. The child was incredibly active, moving almost constantly. He loved feeling the press of the child against his palm beneath Margaret's silky skin. He asked her what it felt like inside, and she told him her skin was spasming, her belly churning as though she'd swallowed a live fish. John could see she was growing slightly more unnerved by the sensation. She was alarmed the first time her skin stretched out when the child turned over.

Mother had seen her expression as well and hastily told her, "I know it looks a little odd, but your body is built for it. He's perfectly content in there."

"Yes," replied Margaret faintly, staring at her bump beneath her nightgown. "But it feels so…"

"Does it hurt?" John asked her, his brow creasing in concern.

"Not exactly. It's not painful, but it's uncomfortable… I don't know if I can describe it. A pressure? I feel like he's pulling me down toward the floor," Margaret illustrated the feeling with her hands, and looked at Mother for guidance.

"It feels different for everyone. So long as he's moving and there's no pain or blood, everything is fine," said Mother comfortingly. She had become much warmer of late, the promise of a grandchild softening her demeanor. And Margaret's ever present laughter in the house would've soothed even the hardest of hearts. It was why Mother didn't object too strongly when Margaret began to remove her dress and corset almost immediately after dinner; changing into a nightgown and robe for when the family was alone. Her skin was often itchy and hot and the removal of her restrictive attire the only thing that would reduce it.


	40. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed"

On her way to Crampton, the sun beat down on her almost aggressively. Her pregnancy heightened all of her senses and emotions. Sitting in front of the fire, she felt as though she was going to melt like butter; in the freezing rain she positively shivered. Her emotions shifted back and forth between intense happiness, annoyance and… fear. Margaret didn't want to tell John that. He was worried enough already; she didn't want to give him more reason to panic.

Her pregnancy had started off beautifully. Every new feeling was wonderful. She loved watching her belly grow with their child. Even her odd cravings and aversions had been more amusing than exasperating. But now… she was always uncomfortable in some way. Too hot, too cold, itchy, her feet cramped, her back sore. Some days it felt like a top was spinning inside her, akin to the feeling one got when they missed a step going downstairs – only constant. Margaret was pleased that the child was so strong and healthy, but tossing and turning every night, unable to sleep; it made her very irritable the next day.

She had – against the protests of Mother and John – walked to Crampton to visit her parents, instead of taking the carriage. She hoped the exercise would soothe her and the child. Or at least make them both so tired that they'd be able to get some sleep. Once inside, she immediately began to hail Mama with questions.

"Was it this hard for you? Did you feel exhausted all the time? Because I feel as though I could about pass out for the next four months," Margaret groaned.

Mama made a little face at Margaret speaking of such a private topic, even in the confines of her mother's parlor. "I was tired, yes. Perhaps if you stayed still and didn't go gallivanting everywhere, you wouldn't be so exhausted."

"I came here for advice, not a lecture, Mama."

"My advice is for you to stay still," Mama shot back.

"I can't," Margaret explained, trying to keep her temper. "Walking is the only thing that seems to help with my sore muscles. Sitting still doesn't suit me, it'll only make me more aggravated. I can't go to the hospital anymore, and all my mill duties are simple tasks. I've already sewed enough clothes for twenty children and the nursery is finished. There's nothing for me to do sitting down anymore."

"What does John say? I'm sure that he agrees with me," said Mama.

Margaret sighed. "He thinks I should stay still too, but he can see how uncomfortable I am. He's been utterly wonderful, massaging my feet, giving me cold baths. He's as invested in this as I am, feeling it with me."

"Surely those are tasks for Caoimhe, not John," said Mama reprovingly.

Margaret rolled her eyes. Mama was firmly of the belief that husband and wife should have separate lives, so as not to impose on each other. She simply couldn't comprehend that Margaret was half herself without John. And the way she felt right now, it was only John's touch that could soothe her.

"Mama. Please, tell me something useful I can do. I'm on the verge of collapse constantly, and John is almost driven to distraction."

Mama pursed her lips, then said; "Tie sprigs of lavender around your bedroom. I remember the scent was comforting to me when I found it difficult to sleep. Sleep on your side with a pillow under your belly. And eat smaller meals more often; that'll help with the indigestion one can sometimes get."

"Thank you," replied Margaret, relieved. "I will try that tonight."

"Has Mrs. Thornton prepared a birthday celebration for you?" asked Mama, changing the topic. "We've received not invitation yet, and your birthday is in two weeks."

"You ought to call her Hannah. We're all family now, after all," insisted Margaret.

Mama waved away her reproach. 'Well?"

"There isn't going to be a huge celebration. Just us, you and Papa, and Sarah. I couldn't stand anything more."

However, by the time her birthday arrived, Margaret was feeling much better. She didn't know whether it was the usefulness of Mama's advice or simply the belief that it worked, but work it did. Margaret took morning walks around Milton, as she found that also helped. John accompanied her if there was nothing at the mill that required his immediate attention. By mutual agreement, they avoided the cemetery, not wanting even a hint of an omen to hang over them.

Her birthday on the twenty-sixth was wonderful. Mother had laid out all her favourite foods (the ones she could stand this week at least) and the company had been excellent. Mama and Mother talked companionably enough about their coming grandchild. Margaret and Sarah chatting about how Sarah was handling her business. John gave her the most amazing gift – a box for her pencils and paints that folded out to become an easel. Sarah gave her a little bronze statute of Venus in response to Margaret's pregnant state, which caused John and Margaret to exchange a secretive smile.

That night, Margaret was lulled to sleep in the bath that Caoimhe had perfumed with scented oil. John came in to the room in his nightshirt and stretched out on the floor beside the tub, dipping his hand in the water to feel her belly. They sat together for a while. The baby was asleep for now, likely also pacified by her feelings of calm.

"You look much better than you have of late, darling," he told her softly.

"I feel better. The pillow has helped, and the lavender."

"Aye," agreed John amusedly. "There's so much in our bedroom I feel as though I'm going to drop to the floor in a dead sleep the moment I walk inside."

"You should be thanking me. Now you smell divine, unlike before when you smelt grimy," Margaret teased, causing John to flick water in her face in retaliation.

"Let's get you out, before you fall asleep again," he told her. He helped her to her feet, wrapping a sheet around her and lifting her out of the bath.

"I can't believe you can still do that," exclaimed Margaret. "I'm at least a stone heavier than I was before."

"I noticed," he replied wryly, putting his hands to his knees and blowing out a breath in an exaggerated show of effort. She smacked him lightly in the chest, laughing. Margaret dried herself off quickly, but when she went to put on her nightgown, she saw John had hidden it behind him.

"You should sleep naked tonight, so I can see how beautiful you are," he said approvingly.

Margaret crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. "Give it back."

"No."

"Give it back!" Margaret made a swipe for the gown, but John switched hands, holding it away from her, chuckling.

"I may not be as fast as I used to be, but I'm certainly heavier," she told him warningly. "I can stomp on your feet and it'll hurt twice as much."

"Unlikely," John snorted. They were engaged in an odd little dance, as Margaret tried in vain to step on his feet and John circled around her out of the way, both of them snickering. The game ended when John captured her mouth in a kiss, deepening it instantly, sliding his tongue against hers. He bent down and lifted her into his arms, holding her carefully so as to compensate for the fragile body growing inside her. Margaret wrapped her legs around his waist as he walked them to the bed. John sat on the edge of the mattress, Margaret in his lap. She felt his hardness grow beneath her and moaned at the feeling.

John sucked at her neck, her earlobe. His tongue in her ear caused her to shiver happily until she was squirming against him, trying to find friction.

"Do we have to stop?" he gasped, gripping her waist to direct her movements.

"No," she breathed. "We just have to be gentle."

John groaned and fell back to the bed. He guided Margaret to straddle him. She took him in hand, stroking him a few times before raising herself up on her knees. She slowly impaled herself on him; John cursing at the sight of it.

He thrust into her deeply, arcing them both off the bed. Margaret held him down, her hands pressed to his chest, head thrown back. They were moaning in union, their movements becoming faster and more erratic. She could feel John getting close, so she frantically thrummed her fingers against her core, wanting to finish with him.

"My god… don't make me watch you do that if you want me to last…" he groaned.

"Close your eyes, then," she retorted breathlessly.

He stuttered out a laugh, but didn't close his eyes. Instead, he pushed himself deeper into her, filling her completely, holding himself there while she fervently worked herself closer to the edge. He levered himself up on one arm and flicked his tongue over her nipples in time with the movements of her fingers. Margaret made a strangled sound and ground herself faster against him. She came apart violently, crying out. John growled and plunging into her repeatedly until he came hard as well.

They both fell back to the bed, John catching Margaret and gently easing her to lay on her side.

"I think that was the best yet," he panted. "I always expected it to plateau, but it just keeps getting better. You've bewitched me somehow."

Margaret snuggled closer to him and he swept his arm around her shoulders. "I think a more logical reason is that we've simply been going without for longer than we have before. It just feels enhanced because of the anticipation."

"Nope," he said stubbornly. "It's because you've bewitched me. You've been slipping something into my tea every morning, making it impossible for me to think of anything but you."

"Do you really think of doing this while you're at work?" Margaret giggled.

"I think of you every moment of my life."

Margaret kissed him sweetly, shaking her head in wonder at his romantic train of thought. "Thank you, John. For loving me."

.

.

.

"What about Louis?"

"No. James?"

"That's too plain, he can't have a plain name… What about Oliver?"

"We're not naming our child after a character in novel. Especially not your awful Dickens!"

Margaret made a face at him. "Fine, how about from one of your favourite authors, then? I like the name Candide."

"Absolutely not. They would be teased something terrible."

John and Margaret were sitting in the drawing room one Sunday afternoon, discussing names for their baby. It was raining heavily causing the temperature to drop in the room. Margaret was lounging against the arm of the sofa, a huge pillow behind her and her feet in John's lap. He had removed her shoes and was massaging her sore feet and calves. The added weight of the baby over May had caused Margaret to develop more severe cramps in her legs. John urged her to sit down as often as possible – his words usually unheeded – and kneaded her aching legs whenever he could see she was uncomfortable.

"Damien?"

" _No_ ," he told her exasperatedly. "For heavens sake, pick a normal name."

"But he can't have an unimaginative name!" she insisted. "Our little prince needs a noble name, a strong name."

John shook his head in exasperation. The two of them had been arguing about this on and off for the last few weeks. Margaret persisted in suggesting the strangest names. He couldn't imagine where she'd gotten half of them.

"Oh, I know! Jethro. As in Jethro Tull. That's a nice industrious name. Perfect for the heir of a cotton empire."

"I like that one," interjected Mother, coming into the room with the tea tray.

"We'll put that one in the 'maybe' column," John told them, also liking the sound of it.

Margaret leant over to the side table and wrote the name on the scrap of paper she had taken to carrying around with her, which listed many other names. She also added Damien and Candide, sticking her tongue out at him when he protested.

"What about girls' names?" Mother asked them.

"I've got quite a few of those too," Margaret told her happily, passing Mother the list. Mother was appalled by some of the suggestions.

"Esmeralda? That's hardly proper. Nor is Salome. Your naming your child, not a bawdy house," she said severely.

Margaret snorted with laughter. "I can see we're going to have to disagree on this too. Will it appease you if I told you that we are going to make her second name Hannah?"

"No," huffed Mother, trying to hide her smile. "I don't want my name sullied by the likes of… Yvonne." Mother made a moue of distaste at the list.

"But that's my favourite! That and Genevieve. Oh, and Miranda, from _The Tempest_."

"Perhaps we ought to stop for now," interrupted John, snickering, seeing his mother was getting ready to protest again. "Margaret still has a while to go."

"What's wrong with nice sensible names?" asked Mother, undeterred.

"The middle names will be sensible, so that they can use that when they're older if they want. But I want his first name to be uncommon."

"Why?" asked Mother curiously.

"Because he's unique and I want a name that reflects that."

"Babies are hardly unique," huffed Mother. "Hundreds are born every day."

"Not ours," smiled Margaret.

Margaret's smile soon disappeared, however. With only two months left, she had begun to have bizarre dreams and would often wake sobbing. She didn't want to tell him what she was dreaming of, but after a week of her screaming in her sleep, John wouldn't take no for an answer. Margaret said she didn't want the thoughts to be in his mind as well, but he insisted. She tearfully told him that in her dreams their child was born dead or not at all – Margaret straining herself over the labor only for the midwife to tell her it was no use, that there was never any child in her round belly. A disturbing one was a dream where her body was slashed open, the child himself tearing his way out of her.

He gathered her in her arms and rocked her to sleep, murmuring frantically that none of it was real. Margaret's fear distressed him more than the contents of her dreams did. She was always so happy and full of light that this lowness terrified him. He knew from experience that despair made everything worse, dulled you down until you couldn't feel anything. He couldn't let that happen to her. He had to be the one to endure sadness, he was the one who was used to it. Nothing truly terrible had ever really touched Margaret's life before. If they did lose their child… it would break her.

John went to visit Mr. Jenkins the next day, asking what might be done for Margaret. Sister Hurst had overheard John's question and barreled over.

"She's not sick, is she? No pain or fever?"

"No. Just the dreams. And the terror. I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself and the child if it goes on much longer."

"Yes, that is a possibility," replied Hurst in a clipped tone, confirming John's worst fear.

"Give her something hot to drink before bed – tea or milk. And a hot bath. Try and keep her mind on something pleasant before she falls asleep," advised Mr. Jenkins. "I will come and pay her a visit if there is no improvement."

That night, John bathed Margaret in hot water, massaged her feet and hands. He whispered stories to her; memories of their honeymoon and their trip to Florence.

"Florence," murmured Margaret sleepily. "If it's a girl, we'll call her Florence."

"Aye, that's a beautiful name for her," agreed John, pleased to have got her attention on something other than pain.

"I'm sorry, John," she whispered. "I'm sorry I'm making this so hard on you…"

"No, don't apologize," he insisted, hugging her close. "All I want is for the two of you to be safe."

.  
He read Margaret's book on childbirth. It didn't go into much detail, so he could see why Margaret was so nervous. There was nothing about vivid dreams or pained muscles. Margaret was someone who needed facts at all times. She thought things through very carefully. This lack of knowledge was causing her distress – her mother unwilling to talk about such a private topic, and Mother unable to relate to these particular symptoms.

Margaret was unnerved by the feeling of the child moving, this becoming more apparent when the two of them were in the office going over the month's output.

"Oh! Oh no, that's awful," cried Margaret, biting her lip, her hands pressed to her belly.

"Are you in pain?" asked John, his hands reaching for her in alarm.

"No. Only I can feel him moving inside. I don't like the feeling at all."

John put his hand on her round belly and felt the rolling movements beneath his palm. "It feels wondrous to me, my love, but I don't know what it would feel like from inside." He brushed her hair from her face. "You must be calm, my darling. All this pain, the nightmares... it's not good for you. Or the baby."

"I know, John. I think it is my expectations that are making it worse. Edith said it was the most wonderful thing to experience, but all I have felt is uncomfortable and shocked. I will be a terrible mother! If the baby bothers me now what will I be like when he's born?" she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Margaret! Nothing could be further from the truth. You will be a wonderful mother," he insisted, gathering her in his arms.

They were both so nervous, likely for the same reason. They knew how dangerous childbirth was. John couldn't read the paper any more. Every young woman's name in the obituaries jumped out at him – they had died in childbirth and his own wife was coming perilously closer to her own time.

Because Margaret was so nervous, he made sure to always be cheerful and supportive. He tried not let on that he himself was terrified. Not of being a father, at least not completely. Mostly he was afraid of losing Margaret. He'd tried to hide it from her, but he knew she saw the haunted look in his eyes. But they both pretended to be ignorant of it. Only at night, safely hidden in the darkness, did they allow themselves to cling desperately to each other.

John knew, as Margaret did, that if she died, he would too.

.

.

.

In the last week of May, Margaret had her first experience with labor. It felt like cramps, only much more painful, and coming and going at odd intervals. She sent Caoimhe flying to get John, but by the time he'd arrived at the manor, the pain had stopped. She was still terrified, thinking she was losing the child. They'd been about to go to the hospital when Mother arrived home from paying calls. She resolutely told them that there wasn't any reason to panic.

"It sounds like false labor. True labor doesn't stop once it gets going."

"But what if something's happened?" Margaret moaned. "What if I'm losing him?"

"Wait until the end of the day. If you're not bleeding, everything is fine."

Margaret was grateful for Mother's pragmatic approach to all this. She and John were scared, the books having not been very comprehensive. Margaret hated not knowing and it was made worse by the fact it was her own body that was betraying her.

She asked to speak with Mother privately, hoping she might ease her fear. She couldn't really ask John for advice. He was as lost as she was, and just as scared.

"I feel like I'm going to be a terrible mother," Margaret admitted tearfully. "Almost my entire pregnancy has been horrid, and then I feel sick that I think that, which makes me even more anxious…"

"It's because you push yourself too hard, Margaret," said Mother severely. "You and John both. The two of you always need to be going a hundred miles and hour and if you're not, you think you're lacking in some way. All you need to do is _relax_. Taking it easy for the next few months isn't going to diminish your hard work or make you look weak. Your hard-driving natures are what makes you and John such a powerful force, but right now, the two of you need to take things easier."

Margaret knew Mother was right, of course. She had kept going for longer than she ought to have done, not wanting anyone to suggest that she couldn't do things because she was a woman and with child. John didn't make her feel that way, not after their first disagreement over it; it was more Margaret herself.

"I don't know how women do this," said Margaret. "Some have children one after the other. They way I feel now, I don't even want to think of another baby after this one."

Mother gave her a lopsided smile. "You might change your mind afterwards. I felt similarly when John was born."

"Did you?" asked Margaret in some surprise. "I would've thought not… since there's such a gap between him and Fanny."

"Not because I didn't want children. I had two miscarriages and a stillbirth over those years."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "Oh. I'm sorry," she whispered. "Does John know?"

"I never told him that outright. He was a child, he didn't need to know. But I'm sure he deduced it later; it's a logical conclusion, why there is so many years between the two of them."

"How do you cope with something like that?" she whispered. If Margaret lost her child, she'd never recover.

"The miscarriages were rather early. That sounds terrible to say out loud, but there it is. The stillbirth stayed with me. A little girl. She was born almost three months early. I've watched her grow in my mind as my other children did. But John and Fanny have done such wonderful things with their lives. I'm thankful I was allowed to have them at least."

Margaret felt more of a connection to Mother, especially in light of this and other conversations they'd had. She knew it was awful of her to disparage her own mother but she couldn't help it. Mama had never been a comforting presence, not even when she was a child. She was too nervous and quiver to be so. Margaret was the one who was the more mature and nurturing one. It hurt, that she couldn't turn to her mother for comfort because Mama was the one who needed to be cared for.

Mama had also not been particularly helpful over her pregnancy. She objected to everything – what Margaret ate, how she spent her day, what John did for her. She and Mama had rather a row over who was to care for the child. Mama wanted Margaret to have a wet nurse and wouldn't listen to any other alternative.

Margaret knew she wanted to look after him herself. Mindful of this, she tried to talk to John about having a separate room from him once the baby was born, so that she wouldn't disturb him, but he was having none of it.

"Don't be silly, you need a good night sleep more than I do, you'll still have to go to work every day," she cajoled. "All I'll be doing is staying in the room."

"I'll be fine, my love, I promise," John insisted. "I've relaxed a bit more now; Williams and Anderson are doing fine. And I want to help you when I can. I don't want you to over exhaust yourself."

"I won't, I'll just be resting. Mother has finally imparted on me the importance of taking it easy. And I think it'll be good, I'll have a new focus. I'll be able to put all my energy into looking after him."

"You always say, 'he'," said John amusingly. "How do you know it's a boy?"

"I just know," she replied smugly, running her forefinger over the curve of her belly. She wasn't sure why she held on to this notion that the child was a boy. If she was wrong, she wouldn't care, but she always had dreams of a son, the happy images replacing her hideous dreams of before.

Mama tried to talk them out of the odd arrangement, appalled at the notion of keeping the child's bassinet in their bedroom. Margaret held out however, reminding Mama once again that it was her decision.

.

By June, Margaret was stifling hot. Being pregnant in summer was awful. She was always hot and uncomfortable. She was fat too; John having to help her do almost everything.

She was half dozing in the drawing room, the windows thrown open in the hope of tempting a cool breeze inside. Gus and Loaf were sprawled out on the cool wooden floors, Margaret longing to join them.

John was reading to her, both of them absently holding a hand to her large belly. The child was turning and shifting occasionally, sometimes pressing his foot or knee against her skin. Margaret found it very odd looking, but was too hot to work herself up over it now.

"Summer is the worst time to have a child," she complained to him. "We didn't plan that very well."

"We'll plan that better with the next one."

"Who says there's going to be a next one?" Margaret protested sleepily. Before she drifted off, she heard John laugh quietly.

.

.

.

Their anniversary passed without much fanfare, both of them preferring to focus on their child. And since it was traditionally a cotton anniversary, they both acknowledged amusedly that there was nothing more they could get their spouse in that area. They simply stayed in bed late, asking Caoimhe to bring breakfast up to their room.

"This won't be as fun as last year," said Margaret, shifting carefully on her side to look at him. "I'm too fat to do anything other than sit down."

"It's not fat, it's a baby," John reminded her wryly.

"I don't care _what_ you name him, John."

He bit his lip to hide his smile. It wouldn't do to laugh at her. She was normally a good sport about any kind of teasing, but was too irritable to laugh at herself at present.

"We should settle on a name," John mused. They had talked of it endlessly, but made no concrete decisions. Margaret was due in only a few weeks.

Margaret thought for a while, smoothing her hands over her belly. "Florence if it's a girl. Even though I had all those other names, that one is the only one that just seemed to fit. The boy name is far harder."

"I thought you liked Jethro most." Margaret seemed to have somewhat settled on that name since she suggested it.

"I think I like the 'o' sound of the name most," she mused. "But instead of Jethro, what about Milo instead? After Milo of Croton, the Greek wrestler who could carry a grown bull on his shoulders. This baby is as strong as you already. I bet I have bruises on my insides."

"Didn't he get eaten by wolves after getting his arm stuck in a tree?" John snorted. "That's hardly a good omen."

Margaret huffed at him. "It's a word of caution. We can teach our son not to be so pigheaded. Not like we are."

"Milo," John repeated slowly. He liked it. It had a comforting feeling. That was how they were both feeling lately – comforted. Margaret had finally relaxed some, focusing on their child. Mother had been a huge help to both of them, her matter-of-factness calming their panic. They'd made arrangements for the delivery as well, the organization of a plan comforting them too. Sister Hurst had promised to be the one delivering the baby, pleasing Margaret. She'd assured John that she'd delivered countless babies and knew how to make the process easier. Far calmer, they were now both looking forward to everything, instead of focusing on the dread of it.

"Is that it? Milo?" Margaret asked him, expression jubilant.

"Aye, that's it," John agreed happily, leaning down to press a kiss to her round belly.


	41. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth"

The evening of the twenty-seventh, Margaret felt very odd. She had cramps, although not as painful as the false ones. She tried to sleep but wasn't able to, too uncomfortable to do so.

The odd feeling continued over the next day and into the afternoon. The pain continued too; Margaret tried to walk it off as Mother suggested, but it didn't work. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. She couldn't eat, her stomach too fitful. When spots of blood appeared on her undergarments, Margaret rang for Caoimhe.

"I think the labor's starting," she whispered, squeezing Caoimhe's hand through the throb.

"But it's too early," Caoimhe whispered, her eyes wide. "You're not due for another few weeks."

"I know. But I think it's going to be today. The pain is getting worse."

"Let's get you back to bed and into a nightgown. Even if it's nothin' you'll be more comfortable at least."

Margaret let herself be pulled along, a cloud of panic engulfing her. She was barely aware of Caoimhe braiding her hair or urging her to sit on the bed.

"Where's John?" asked Margaret through numb lips.

"At the mill, ma'am. I'll go and tell 'im to come."

Margaret was left alone with nothing but the pain to distract her, her panicked breaths filling the air. Her lower back hurt the most. She tried to shift around, hoping a different sitting position would help, but it didn't abate.

"Alright, baby, I hear you," she told the bump, rubbing it soothingly. "You want to arrive now. Guess I made it sounds too good, hey? That or you're too uncomfortable in there. I know the feeling."

Caoimhe soon returned, bringing Mother instead of John.

Seeing Margaret's frantic expression, Mother said; "John isn't at the mill. Williams said he was called to the print factory. Two of the warming machines have gone over in the heat. He'll be back soon."

"But I need him here now!" Margaret cried. She couldn't go through this without John.

"I'll fetch him, ma'am. And I'll sent Urquhart to fetch Sister Hurst and your mother."

.

.

.

"Master? You'd better come quickly."

John jerked his head up at the sound of Caoimhe's quiet voice, her presence here out of place.

"What's happened?" he asked anxiously.

Caoimhe looked uneasily at the around at the men surrounding John. "You're needed at home, sir," she said, looking at him meaningfully.

John's stomach dropped, as did the spanner he was holding.

"Alright, I'm coming. Anderson, I'll… be back later," he said distractedly. "Is it Margaret?" he asked frantically, he and Caoimhe hurrying to the entrance.

"Aye. The baby'll be here soon."

"But Margaret's not due until next month!" John cried, almost cutting her off in his distress

"I know, but she says it's now. I've sent for Sister Hurst; she and Mrs. Hale will likely already be there."

When they arrived at the manor, Mother met them at the door. Caoimhe went right upstairs, but Mother held John back.

"It's fine, John. Sister Hurst says all is normal. You ought to stay here; Sister Hurst doesn't want too many people crowding Margaret."

"Mrs. Hale can leave, or Caoimhe," said John shaking off his mother's grip. "I'm not going to stay here. I want to be with her."

John almost tripped on the stairs when Margaret's scream pierced the stillness. He pounded down the landing. "Margaret!" cried John. Her scream went right to his chest and squeezed painfully. He tried the doorknob but found it locked.

"Margaret!"

The door opened inward suddenly. The furious face of Sister Hurst appeared.

"Mr. Thornton, stop bellowing like a wounded bull," she said angrily. "You are distressing Margaret!"

She turned back into the room for a moment as Margaret called to her, then grudgingly opened the door wider.

"She wants you to come inside," she said gruffly.

John shoved himself through the gap before the door was all the way open. He went straight to Margaret's side. Her face was red and slick with sweat, tears were coursing down her cheeks. She reached for him wordlessly. John dropped to his knees beside her and laced his fingers through hers. She squeezed his hand tightly and gave another shriek of pain; pitching forward and sucking in a deep breath through her clenched teeth.

As soon as the contraction passed, Margaret sagged back against the pillows. "I can't believe there's still hours left of this," she moaned pitifully.

"The worst is still yet to come," Mrs. Hale reminded her.

Margaret glared daggers at her mother. "Thank you, Mama, that's cheered me up enormously."

Mrs. Hale frowned at John, as though he had been the one to utter the comment. "Margaret, are you sure you want John in here? It's not proper –"

" _Yes_ ," snapped Margaret, her distress making her irritable. "He'll be more help to me than you are being at this moment!"

John stayed out of it, more concerned with Margaret's discomfort. Caoimhe had been mopping Margaret's sweaty brow with a damp cloth; when John came into the room, she let him take over, but still hovered anxiously over her beloved mistress.

"Come on dear, it'll be a while before the next one," said Sister Hurst soothingly. "You're not close enough yet. Try to get up and walk around. That'll help with the pain."

John helped Margaret to her feet. She began to pace frantically, breathing heavily. John could only watch helplessly. She was frightened and tired, and it was making the pain worse. She snapped at everyone, but came back to John when a contraction started, so that she could squeeze his hand through the pain.

Sister Hurst tried to cajole her into doing something else, playing cards or reading, but Margaret was too tense to pay attention to anything other than her palpitating belly. Mrs. Hale got Margaret to explain the nursery once more, and what her plans were once the child was born. This did distract Margaret somewhat, until her mother objected to the lack of wet nurse again, Mrs. Hale unwisely badgering the topic.

"We are not having this argument _again_ ," puffed Margaret, narrowing her eyes at her mother. "He's my child, I want to look after him."

"Margaret, be reasonable. You won't be in any position to do anything after the birth. It can take weeks for some women to recover."

"I'll be fine. He'll be right next to the bed, and I'll be able to rest beside him. Besides, ordinary women look after their own babies all the time."

"And how well does that work out?" frowned Mrs. Hale. "One always reads in the paper of those babies dying so young –"

" _Jesus_ , Mama! I don't want to hear that right now."

"Stop. Please," said John, seeing that Mrs. Hale was going to rebuke her daughter.

Sister Hurst leaned in close to whisper quickly in John's ear. "Margaret _must_ be calm," she implored. "She'll make herself and the child sick if she doesn't."

Panic looming over him at that whispered statement, John discarded his waistcoat and stoked up the fire to warm the room. He got Margaret to sit in a chair before the fire, arranging soft pillows all around her. He sat on the floor in front of her and kneaded his fingers against her feet in an effort to soothe her. The heat and pure exhaustion lulled Margaret into a fitful doze, her hands clenching the arms of the chair tightly through every contraction. She slept for about an hour and a half, John's hands never leaving her body in all that time. But soon, the pain started coming too close together for her to continue sitting still.

She eased herself off the chair to the floor to kneel beside him, rocking back and forth slightly. Margaret gripped John's forearms tightly, tears sparkling in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm sorry I've been snapping at you. It hurts so much, and everyone says it'll only get worse. What if something goes wrong? What if –"

"Hush, please! Don't say that. You're going to be fine, both of you." John smoothed her hair back frantically and kissed her sweaty brow.

"John, you have to promise me –"

"No!"

"You must save him, _please_ , John."

"No, this is pointless, Margaret!" he moaned. "You're going to be fine, nothing is going to happen to you. Women go through this all the time. Some women have ten children and are not a wit worse for it. Nothing's going to happen, you hear me?"

Margaret shook her head frantically, then gave an odd gasping scream that turned his blood to ice.

"Can't you give her _something_?" begged John, whirling to face Sister Hurst. "Even if it's just a shot of whiskey?"

"The pain will help her, tell her body what to do. But I suppose if this goes on for longer, a pain reliever wouldn't go amiss. It might wear off by the time the active labor starts. Margaret?"

"Yes, anything," she panted, her nails digging into John's skin, leaving bloody marks.

John got Caoimhe to fetch Margaret a glass of whiskey, three fingers high. Mrs. Hale watched, scandalized, as Margaret threw it back with the ease of someone who was used to doing so.

"Margaret–!"

"I swear to god, Mama, if the next words out of your mouth aren't something helpful, I will kick you out," Margaret ground out. Mrs. Hale gaped at being address so, the shock of it the only thing that stopped her from protesting.

It took a while for the alcohol to work, but once it did, John carried Margaret to the bed. She didn't sleep, even though the pain was dulled. John chaffed her hands between his own and talked to her mindlessly. Sometimes she replied, but mostly she just drifted; her mind and body too wearied to pay much attention to anything.

Mother came into the room briefly to check on Margaret. She put a gentle hand to Margaret's forehead.

"John, you must eat something," Mother told him quietly. "You've been here for hours."

"No. I'll eat when she does," John replied, not taking his eyes off his wife.

"You'll be no good to her if you collapse from hunger," she insisted.

"I'm fine."

Sister Hurst felt beneath Margaret's nightgown to check if her body was ready to deliver the baby. At John's pleading look, she said grimly, "Not yet. A few more hours at least. You should try and get some sleep."

" _No_ ," he growled.

The next four hours passed in a haze of stress and worry for the couple. Sister Hurst told them repeatedly that there were no signs of danger and that Margaret's body was responding exactly as it should. It did not comfort the terrified pair. The alcohol wore off and Sister Hurst would not let Margaret have anymore, as she had dilated further and active labor would start soon.

The contractions came every fifteen minutes or so now; Margaret having to pant her way though the pain of them. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, one hand clenched in the sheets, the other holding tight to John while he rubbed her back soothingly.

By half ten, Margaret was crying out in agony almost constantly, the contractions coming swiftly one after the other. Suddenly, she flung her hands out, her eyes full of fear.

"Oh! Oh god, I can feel him moving – what is that, what's happening?" she cried, jerking her body backwards in shock.

"Stay calm, he's just dropping. He's getting himself in a comfortable position to make the labor easier," replied Sister Hurst in a measured voice.

"Easier?! This whole damn thing has not been easy –"

"Margaret, look at me!" John took her face firmly between his hands. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I never have before, and I won't start now. You need to be calm now, so that the baby can be calm. I know you're in pain –" he swallowed "– but you need to _relax_."

She let a long breath that ended in moan. John kept his hands on her face, which comforted Margaret slightly. She closed her eyes and began to take deep breaths, exhaling slowly after the contraction passed. The two of them stayed like that, breathing deeply, until their panic subsided.

"I can breathe better now," said Margaret, her voice more even. "He's not pressing on my chest anymore."

John resumed his earlier position of sitting next her and rubbing her back. Soon, Margaret began to shiver oddly, as though with chills, but neither Sister Hurst nor Mrs. Hale were alarmed by this. Margaret groaned at this awful new symptom, the rest of her muscles now also becoming sore from the strain. Sister Hurst had a quiet word with Caoimhe, who then left the room and returned with a chamber pot, which perplexed the couple, right up until Margaret went green, lent over the side of the bed and was violently sick.

Caoimhe held the bowl under Margaret's chin then took it away quickly, coming back with a tiny measure of whiskey so that Margaret could get the horrid taste out of her mouth.

"Why is she sick?" asked John frantically. "Is that normal?"

"Yes, this is just the beginning of the active labor. Everything will happen much more quickly now. It'll be over soon," Sister Hurst replied.

"About _damn_ time," hissed Margaret. "Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen? Nobody said morning sickness happened during labor!"

Sister Hurst gave a short laugh. "Not everyone gets sick, and I didn't want to put the idea in your head. But the worst will soon be over."

Margaret shot the nurse a nasty look. She retched again a few times, but her stomach was empty now.

John also felt like vomiting. Whatever he'd been imagining, it wasn't anything as horrifying as this. The sheer length of time it took; Margaret terrified; all her odd symptoms. They had both naively thought that she'd spend all her time pushing, not building towards it in agonizing stages. He pressed gentle kisses to her temple, smoothing back her damp hair.

Margaret groaned again and reached between her legs. "He's sitting _right there_ ; I can feel it. I feel like my bones are going to break! He's just pressing against me harder, no matter how I'm positioned."

John's eyes widened and he made a pained noise of his own. Surely the child couldn't harm her that way? She had joked that the child was bruising her from the inside with all his kicking, but what if it was true? It reminded him of Margaret's dream – the child ripping his way out of her body…

Margaret's eyes flew open; wetness suddenly spreading across the sheets underneath her.

"Your waters have broken. It's almost over now, only an hour or two until the baby is born," Sister Hurst told her. She lifted Margaret's shift up to her waist and checked her again.

"Margaret, what have you done?" asked Mrs. Hale in a shocked voice. "You – your body is bare!"

"For god sake, Mama, this is not the time or place!"

"What did you do?" she cried as if she hadn't heard her daughter. "John, did you know about this? Is this your influence?"

" _Mother_!" shouted Margaret. "I am scared and in a lot of pain… can you please just… _leave_ it until after?"

"Alright, everyone done bickering? Good, now; Margaret, it's time to push," said Sister Hurst severely. She maneuvered Margaret into position. "Mr. Thornton, if you're going to stay for this, make yourself useful. Sit behind Margaret and let her use you as an anchor. Hold one of her legs – yes, just like that. Ready, Margaret?"

"No," she whimpered. "I don't know how to push."

"You don't need to," replied Sister Hurst. "Your body will do it for you – trust yourself. Take a deep breath, feel what's happening, and push with the contraction when your body tells you to."

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Margaret took a deep breath and did as Sister Hurst asked. She closed her eyes and felt each and every sensation in her body. Her feet pressed to the soft mattress, John's warm body against her back, his quick panicked breaths fluttering against her hair, his left hand held against her knee comfortingly. Sweat dripping down her brow and between her breasts; her rapid heartbeat; her child straining against her pelvic bones.

She had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for until she felt it; a pulsing that started along her spine, then shot down between her legs. It was as painful as a contraction, but with the promise of bringing relief as well. Her muscles clenched automatically and she wasn't even aware she was pushing until Sister Hurst spoke to her encouragingly.

"Good… keep going, keep going. Alright, you can rest now."

Margaret slumped back against John, panting, tears springing into her eyes again.

"You're going to keep doing that every time a contraction happens, with the small breaks in between," Sister Hurst told her. "The baby will be here before you know it."

"Can't we just skip to that part?" asked Margaret pitifully.

"'Fraid not."

Knowing that it was almost over made her more anxious, not less. She could see the end of it now, stretched out across the horizon, shimmering in and out of focus. Everything about this had been awful. Mothers always spoke of children with such joy, and now Margaret could see why – it was to distance themselves from the hideous trial that they had to go through before the child was even born.

She had never been more scared in her life. It felt like she was going to die in a fog of pain and blood. It had been difficult to breathe, all her muscles seized up from contractions or tremors. Her belly was hard and sore, sending painful pulses up and down her spine until all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and never move again.

Another contraction began, the throb of it forcing Margaret to push again, while Hurst murmured encouraging words. Despite Sister Hurst being rather tight-lipped about what to expect, Margaret was forever grateful the woman was here. The fact that she looked as calm as she always did, gave Margaret hope that she would come through this alright on the other end. Mama, however, had been less than unhelpful. She had sat in the corner all night, sewing or reading, and spoke not at all unless it was to criticize her. Even now, she was looking at Margaret with a scandalized expression; when she wasn't glaring at John.

John. Margaret could see he was even more terrified than she was. She was tethered by the pain but John was floating aimlessly alongside her, only able to watch helplessly. She was glad she couldn't see his face right now; the despair there would only cause her to scream in terror.

Margaret moaned and pushed again. It didn't feel like she was achieving anything.

"You're doing great, Margaret. Keep pushing," said Sister Hurst, her brow creased in concentration.

Clearly unsure of what to do, John began to mimic Hurst's words. She knew he was doing it to be helpful, but Margaret saw red. After Mama's grueling comments and Sister Hurst being so nonchalant about the whole event, the last thing she wanted was another person chanting mindless, unhelpful words in her ear.

She gripped his leg tightly, dangerously close to the most sensitive part of his anatomy and growled; "John, you are here to be supportive, not to tell me what to do!"

"Sorry, sorry!"

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Time ceased to mean anything. All she could think of was each contraction, each throb of pain that racked through her body. Sister Hurst's voice threaded through her consciousness occasionally, as did John's soothing voice.

"Make it stop, John," she sobbed, sagging against him. "I want this to end."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, my love," he groaned, pressing a hard kiss to her temple. "It'll be over soon, and then that's it. I'll do everything from then on. Keep going, just a little longer."

"Don't be so dramatic, Margaret. You're going to be fine," said Mama crisply.

Margaret almost cursed at her mother again. She didn't care if Mama was saying it to be comforting; it only irritated her. She wished she'd asked Mother to stay with her instead.

After another indescribable amount of time, Margaret suddenly felt the skin between her legs burning and she screamed. She couldn't believe there was _more_ pain now. This was never going to end, it was just like her dream – no baby, only pain…

"He's crowning!" Sister Hurst cried. She grabbed a cloth and reached down to guide the baby. "Only a little more, one more big push…"

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It was simultaneously both the longest and shortest seven hours of John's life. But at ten to midnight, their child finally appeared.

"There we go, keep pushing, keep pushing… there!"

Sister Hurst grinned triumphantly and swaddled the baby in the cloth she was holding. She pressed the child to Margaret's breast.

"A healthy baby boy. Well done."

Margaret laughed soundlessly. "I knew it."

She pulled him closer; the was child screaming at the shock of it all, but Margaret's murmurs and warm skin soothed him.

"Well done, my love. He's beautiful. He's perfect," John whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. He gently put his hand to his son's soft head and kissed Margaret's temple.

"He's perfect," she echoed, leaning her cheek against his head and John's hand.

"Do you have a name for him yet? Sister Hurst asked softly.

"Milo," Margaret sighed. "Milo William Thornton, for John's father."

Mrs. Hale wrinkled her nose. "That's rather unpleasant. And it's not an English name."

Margaret frowned but was too exhausted to say anything more, her eyelids drifting closed without her permission.

"That's what we've decided," said John, quietly but firmly. "He's our child."

Mrs. Hale huffed at him, but he wasn't moved. Mrs. Hale had been a hindrance through the whole birth. Everything she said to Margaret made her angry or scared. It was clear all of Mrs. Hale's irritation was directed at John. She had always had doubts about him, due to his class, but his love of Margaret seemed to have won her over, at least a little. But now, in light of her daughter's cursing and shocking body; not to mention that abortifacient nonsense, she was no doubt certain that all of this crudeness was John's influence; a result of his low breeding. John was not pleased by her behavior, but decided not to dwell on it, the day far to joyous to think of anything but the small boy in Margaret's arms.

Margaret wasn't really sleeping, but she was too tired to move, or even talk. She fluttered her fingers against the baby and John's hand, sighing contently. John was about to move to lay beside her, but Sister Hurst motioned for him to stand.

"I'm going to cut the cord now," she told him. "When I do, you take him, and you and Mrs. Hale can give him a wash."

"Should we take him?" asked John. Margaret wouldn't want that.

"Just for a little while. Margaret needs to deliver the afterbirth and she can't do that and hold him at the same time."

"Another baby?" Margaret sleepy panicked voice filled the room, misunderstanding their whispered conversation.

Sister Hurst snorted. "Not another. The afterbirth. It'll be over in a moment, and then the three of you can get some sleep."

John reached down and gently took the baby. Margaret protested weakly but Sister Hurst soothed her, telling her he'd be back soon. Caoimhe had brought in a basin filled with a bit of tepid water. John carefully lowered the baby into the water, keeping a firm hold on him. Mrs. Hale scrubbed gently at his skin. The baby began to cry fitfully, disliking the sensation.

"Bring him back, he doesn't like it," Margaret protested, too tired to get her voice above a hoarse whisper.

"He's fine, love. I'm watching him," John replied softly.

"Margaret's been rather dramatic over this. There was no need for you to be here," said Mrs. Hale severely, choosing to admonish him under the cover of the baby's cries.

"She wanted me here. I wanted to be here. Leave it be," said John shortly.

"You indulge her too much."

"So I should. That should not be what irritates you."

"What, then? That you've turned my daughter into some sort of… hussy?"

"I had nothing to do with that. Margaret's right, can't you just leave it for now? If you want to yell at me, do it tomorrow."

Margaret's pained gasps cut through his concentration. Sister Hurst had placed one hand above Margaret's pubic bone and pulled gently on the cord to deliver the afterbirth. It was over much quicker than the delivery of the child and Margaret's cries soon ceased. She eased herself up weakly.

"Where is he? John?"

"He's here. I'll bring him back in a moment."

Once he was clean, John lifted him from the water, and Caoimhe showed him how to wrap him in a clean cloth. He carried their son back to Margaret. She took him eagerly and pressed him to her chest again. The baby recognized her scent and was calmed almost instantly.

John lay down carefully next to her. "Thank you, my love," he sighed, gathering them both in his arms. Margaret turned her head slightly, her kiss against his brow whisper soft.

"My darling boy. My darling boys."

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*Authors Note: Don't worry, this isn't the final chapter!

*Authors Note 2: I've never been pregnant so all this information came from research. Please let me know if you notice any glaring inaccuracies.


	42. Chapter 40

*A/N: AHH! I think those were the best reviews yet! Thank you!

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Chapter 40

"Those that do teach young babes do it with gentle means and easy tasks"

John was right – he was perfect.

Milo was tiny; a bit shorter than Margaret's forearm. In John's arms, he looked even smaller. His hands still curled in on themselves and so did he, crumpled up as though he was still in her womb. He was delightfully warm. She could see his pulse in the thin membrane of his skin, and in between the soft spot on his skull. Margaret could see he was going to have John's dark hair – Milo already having a thin scattering of it over his head. A soft down covered the rest of his skin. Each of his fingers were perfect; the knuckles like little dents of cream. He scrunched his eyes together tightly, the darkened room seemingly too much for his new senses. When his eyes did open, they were the palest blue; though Margaret was warned that they might not stay that colour. His gaze moved jerkily, but Sister Hurst assured them that was only because he couldn't see very well at present, but it would right itself in a few months, as he grew stronger.

She fed him only an hour or so after he was born. Margaret was surprised that he was hungry so soon, but when he began to shift restlessly against her skin, his little mouth opening, Sister Hurst told her that's what he wanted.

He had to suck for a while before the milk flowed, which was announced by a tingling sensation. It was sore at first, both of them adapting, but once he had a good latch, the only sensation that remained was a sharp tugging as he suckled. Margaret was about to ask how to tell he was full, when Milo turned away on his own, shifting minutely and lolling contently against her bare skin.

"Was that enough?" she asked worriedly, her own eyes closing without her permission.

"He's tiny, his stomach is tiny too. Let him dictate when you feed him, he knows best about when he's hungry and when he's full," explained Sister Hurst.

Margaret, Milo and John slept for hours afterwards, all the way to the late afternoon. She didn't even dream; her eyes suddenly opened and the sun was steaming in through the window and John was sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her, holding the baby.

"How are you feeling, darling?" he asked softly, seeing she was awake.

"I feel like I've been hit with a cricket bat."

She actually felt much worse than that, a dozen other less savory comparisons popping into her mind. That had to be the most ineffective and painful way to birth a baby. Margaret tried to struggle into a straighter sitting position but her muscles were too sore, and she could feel blood pooling between her legs again. She lay back down carefully.

"Where is everyone?"

"I sent your mother home and Caoimhe's gone to get some rest too. Sister Hurst will be back this evening to check on you. She left some things for you to take," said John, gesturing to the bedside table. "The syrup is for warding off corruption, and the ginger tea for the pain."

Margaret snorted. Tea wasn't going to help with her pain. She wished she could have something stronger but that might make Milo drunk again too and that wouldn't be good for his tiny body.

"How is he?" she asked tenderly. John extended his arms to lay Milo against her chest. His warm weight was instantly soothing and much of Margaret's irritation vanished.

"He's fine. He's got a set of lungs on him, that's for sure," John smiled.

"Was he crying?" asked Margaret worriedly. "Why didn't I wake up?"

"You did, sort of. Sister Hurst showed me how to hold him to you. Both of you fell back to sleep quickly."

Margaret didn't remember that. John saw her distressed expression and said soothingly; "You're completely exhausted, love, and rightly so. We'll get everything sorted out properly as soon as you're feeling better."

She nodded, appeased by his words. "How are you feeling?" she asked him. "You didn't sleep at all either."

"I was terrified," he admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Margaret shied away from him slightly, her soreness amplifying every other sensation in her body. "But that was amazing to watch," he continued softly, his eyes warm. "You were magnificent."

"I don't feel magnificent. I feel uncomfortable and sore."

"Here, let me help you take those medicines," he said anxiously, sliding off the bed and coming around to her side. Margaret was jostled in the process and almost moaned aloud at the ripple of pain the movement sent through her body. John took Milo gently and placed his sleeping form in the bassinet that was set up next her. John measured out a spoonful of the liquid and Margaret took it dutifully. He rang for a tray of food to be brought up to the room, and a pot of boiling water for the tea.

Margaret ate slowly, but soon discovered that some of her uncomfortableness was hunger, having not eaten in almost three days, and so her mood improved considerably afterwards.

"Did Mama yell at you?" Margaret asked John, sipping the unpleasant tea.

"Not yet. But we were both pretty tired; once she's recovered she'll be back here with a vengeance, dragging you away from me, baby and all."

"Was it that bad?" asked Margaret softly. John's voice was light, but his eyes were sad.

He sighed. "I've never argued with her, but I fear one is imminent. She's very shocked at the route your life has taken. She thought my wealth would mitigate it, but we've not been doing things the way she thinks we ought to have done. You've too much freedom, you control me too much, we waited too long to have a baby, then nothing we did was right when you finally were with child; and a dozen other things, no doubt. She's being holding it all in, but I think seeing you last night has made her determined to confront me."

"Why is that your fault? All of those were my decisions too."

"She thinks I've corrupted you… turned you into some scarlet woman."

Margaret groaned and slumped against the pillows. "Perfect. That's just what I need right now. Do you think she's told Mother? Or Papa?"

"I don't know. Mother would be shocked by some of it, but she'll stick up for you about Milo. Mother raised Fanny and I on her own. As for your father… he may think you immoral, perhaps, but… he never got angry when Fred did scandalous things."

"Fred's a man, that's why. Men are forgiven everything."

John sighed heavily, raising his eyebrow in acknowledgement of her sullen remark. "I'll keep her away, you don't need extra stress right now. I'll deal with it if it comes."

"That's not fair, John. It's my doing."

"I'll at least tell her to hold off until you've recovered, she won't begrudge you that."

"Won't she? She'll try and get me now my guard is down," said Margaret sourly.

"I won't let her inside if you don't want her here. And I'll try and not be too harsh; I don't want there to be a falling out over this."

"I don't care if there is," Margaret retorted petulantly. She wasn't herself. Her emotions were still swinging wildly all over the place. She wondered if this was how Fred felt all the time and now had greater sympathy with him; she too wanting to push against almost anything to see if these feelings would go away.

Only Milo could soothe her. When he was in her arms, she was supremely happy, thinking only of him. When she put him down so she could eat or sleep, she became impatient, wanting him back. She didn't mind if John held him, but only if he stayed close to her.

Mother came in to visit with her. "He's a great beauty. Looks just like John did," she said admiringly, gently running her forefinger over Milo's face. He instinctively began to shift around, looking for the source of the feeling. When Mother put her finger in his hand, he grasped it tightly, the only movement his tiny hands were able to perform this young.

When Sister Hurst came back, Margaret worriedly told her how strange she was feeling, and how sore.

"That's perfectly normal, dear. The soreness should disappear in a few days, and the bleeding will stop in a month or so, and it'll be no more painful than your normal bleeding. As for your emotions, you've just been through a great trial. Give yourself time to adjust."

"When can I get up?" Margaret was sure some of her irritation was caused by her having to sit so still.

"In two weeks. Ten days at minimum."

"Two _weeks_? I'll go mad!"

Sister Hurst gave her a severe look. "You must give your body time to heal so that there is no hemorrhaging. I know you're not good at it, but you must do this, Margaret. This is a very risky time. Just because the birth has passed, doesn't mean the danger has. You must take precautions."

Margaret was chastised by that. She hadn't been thinking that way. And it _was_ painful to move, so maybe she'd welcome the chance to stay hidden while she bonded with her baby.

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She did. She did nothing but eat and sleep and hold her son. Milo slept almost constantly, as if to make up for all his activeness earlier. John rarely left the room. He and Margaret spent the recovery period talking and tending to their baby, learning what worked best for him. They learnt the motions he made when he was hungry and tried to feed him early, finding that he struggled to feed if he was wailing uncomfortably beforehand. Sometimes Margaret was too tired to move and so John would help hold Milo to her breast, both of them watching his jaw move rhythmically as he swallowed. He was hungry a dozen times a day but never fed for very long. Margaret trusted Sister's Hurst's admission that Milo would know his own body. He certainly seemed to recognize Margaret and John's voices and would turn vaguely in search of the soft sounds.

The worst of the pain went away in a few days, though she continued to bleed. She could feel herself getting stronger too, able to stay awake longer, and sit up against the headboard with her legs crossed, Milo lain between them.

.

A few people came to visit with her, but didn't stay for very long. Sarah came for a little while and gave Margaret an almond oil for her stretch marks, and brought Milo some toys she'd made for him – a zoo's worth of knitted animals. Margaret was touched by the thoughtful gifts.

Mother came into the room for half an hour every morning and evening to see them and hold Milo, bringing them news of the outside world. She gave Margaret her blessing to use her husband's name for the baby.

Mama did not visit, kept away by John. Margaret was glad of that. The more thought back over the birth, the angrier she got. She didn't want to row with Mama right now, she'd say something unforgivable in her weariness.

She was too tired to notice the first few times, but she soon began to feel very strange when breastfeeding. It caused her to have cramps again, as though the feeding of the child was telling her body that it was time to return to normal. Milo suckling at her was more painful than she anticipated and left her with confused emotions. She disliked the pain of it; was shocked that it should be painful in the first place; but she also loved watching Milo feed. She didn't want to associated feeding with pain, as that would only make things worse for them both in the long run. Milo needed to be fed this way for months; she was determined to push passed it. Margaret got John to talk or read to her during it, wanting to think of something else, though it was difficult.

Her breasts leaked whenever Milo cried, even if he wasn't hungry. Sometimes she even woke to it, if she had dreamed of him.

Another odd side effect she hadn't anticipated was a deep dislike of being touched by anyone other than Milo; even by John. It was particularly apparent right after Milo had fed, both of them drunk on the emotions the bonding ritual fostered. John could see she didn't like it and stayed far enough away that they couldn't touch. This also caused her distress, her rational side arguing against these new emotions that said no one else was to touch her or the baby. She was deeply concerned about what it might mean for John. What if it took months to go away? What if it never did? It would be devastating for their marriage if they couldn't satisfy each other.

"Do you think it's in my head? Because I was so insistent at looking after him myself?" Margaret asked him tearfully.

John half-reached for her, before he lowered his hand, his brow creased with concern. "I don't think so, not really. It makes sense that your body wants you to only focus on one thing right now."

"But I feel awful about it! I'm upsetting you, I can see it."

"No, you're not," he disagreed gently. "I'm concerned about your unhappiness, but that's it. I don't feel left out. You're letting me be far closer than some wives let their husbands be. If it continues… then we'll talk about it again."

"You won't stray?" she whispered miserably.

"Margaret! Is that what you're worried about? I'm not going to do anything like that!" he assured her frantically. "That's the _last_ thing that's on my mind right now. If it takes six months, a year, or ten for you to come back to me, then it does. I don't care."

He shifted until he was a hairsbreadth from her and looked deep into her eyes. "I love you with all my heart, dearest. I'll never leave you. Nothing on earth has force enough to take me from you."

Margaret sighed. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, but they were happy ones. She touched her lips to his briefly. "Thank you, John. If I don't – or can't – show it for the next little while, please know that I love you enormously. And I will always want you, in the back of my mind. We just have to wait until it moves to the front again," she said, quirking a quick smile at him.

Mindful of the last time her emotions rolled about like this, Margaret focused on taking it one day at a time, concentrating solely on each task, without letting any other thoughts invade her mind. It worked very well, helped her divulged into each new task and emotion as it came up. She became better at distinguishing between Milo's types of signals over what he wanted from her. Milo developed a liking for faces, his eyes focusing intently on hers or John's when they held him. When Margaret fed him and he stared up at her with his soulful blue eyes, tracking her movements when she shifted her head, she wept at the beauty of it.

Her fear lessened. Her aversion to being touched by John went away, though his touch still didn't elicit any feelings in her besides comfort. They talked about that too, reasoning that it was normal for her to distance herself from her husband, because she ought to be focusing on the baby, and it was her body's way of reminding her of that.

She held on to the knowledge that all of this was new to her, and that it was fine to feel scared or confused, but not to go to pieces. She told John when she felt overwhelmed and they talked about it, helping her identify what it was that was bothering her.

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John was called to quarter sessions in the second week of their confinement but asked to be excused for this month, not wanting to leave Margaret or his child. They stayed together, just the three of them, in their rooms, so that they all might learn each other. Every day they discovered some wonderful new thing about Milo.

He was the most beautiful baby John had ever seen. Margaret said Milo looked just like him, but John saw Margaret in his features whenever he scrunched up his nose or looked curiously up at them. The tiny body felt incredibly fragile in his arms and he felt a wave of appreciation for how well Margaret had carried their child for the past nine months.

Margaret recovered quickly, and was soon able to stand and walk around the room, bouncing Milo gently to soothe him. He and Margaret were both tired from being roused often by Milo's cries, but they soon had a good feeding schedule. Margaret would reach for Milo, seemingly in her sleep, holding him tightly while he fed. John would watch them carefully to make sure they were steady, but Margaret didn't really need it. Despite her anxiety over motherhood, she was fairly instinctive about most of it. Some things she performed a little woodenly, like the feeding, but only because she disliked the sensation. As she and Milo adjusted, her view changed and she grew to appreciate the bond of it.

John himself loved watching it. It was the most amazing thing, watching the beautiful little person that he and Margaret had created doing something so natural. He didn't tell her this though, knowing it might upset her to know she didn't feel as joyed by it. He was also mindful of the fact he wasn't the one feeling the sensation and didn't know what it was truly like.

He _had_ been stunned by her aversion to his touch. When John was upset, it was often only Margaret that could soothe him; it was startling to realize she preferred the opposite right now. It shocked them both the first time she jerked away from him, neither prepared for her reaction. Margaret froze and then started to cry, confused by her reaction, but still wouldn't let him closer to comfort her. He felt heartbroken the first time, thinking the trauma of the birth had turned her off him, but they talked it through and were better for it. He'd also been far more shocked than he let on about her concerns of him straying from her. It had never occurred to him to have anyone else in his life other than Margaret. If she didn't want him, he would have no one and wouldn't go down another path. She had been pacified by his frantic admission of fidelity, and touched him for the first time in almost two weeks.

It was a pity Mrs. Hale didn't believe the love he felt for Margaret. Mr. Hale came to visit with John and Margaret, and if his wife and told him horrid stories about the two of them, he made no mention of it. Mr. Hale smiled happily at his grandson, and was vastly pleased at Margaret's quick recovery. He also brought gifts for Milo's christening – a porringer, a tiny silver cup and an infants bible.

Mrs. Hale tried to see her daughter again but John wouldn't let her up to the bedroom.

"You upset her enormously last time. She's fragile right now; I can't have all our progress undone by another argument with you."

Mrs. Hale glared at him. "I won't be kept away from my own grandchild. Or my daughter."

"I'm not keeping you away. I'm just saying that it ought not to be right now. When Margaret leaves the room, then she can say when she wants to see you."

"When you say, you mean."

John sighed. "Mrs. Hale, I realize you don't like me very much right now, if you ever did. But you must give Margaret credit for knowing her own mind. She's not my puppet; everything she does has been her own decision, or ours together."

"And her – body was her own idea, was it?" demanded Mrs. Hale, going red in the face. "Her drinking? Her wanting to exhaust herself over caring for your son?"

John stared her down, his own temper growing alarmingly quickly. "Margaret doesn't drink, not like that. It was our choice to be involved in the raising of Milo. As for her body… I can't believe I have to tell you this, but that was her choice too."

Mrs. Hale narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't believe you. You've seen in some sordid picture somewhere, asked her to copy it."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to tell Mrs. Hale that they did see it in a sordid picture – one her own son had given them – but knew that wouldn't be at all helpful. Instead he said; "She saw paintings of it in Italy and wanted to try it. That's it. I'll not talk anymore about the subject." It wasn't a lie after all, merely an omission of how long Margaret had been doing it. John turned from her and started up the stairs again, impatient to return to his wife and son.

"I want Margaret to have a nursemaid," Mrs. Hale insisted. "I'll not have you work my daughter into her grave over this."

John slowed, contemplating going back and giving her a piece of his mind. To even suggest that he would hurt Margaret in any way whatsoever! But he continued without answering, Margaret's comfort more important than getting into stuck in a row with his mother-in-law.

Back in their rooms, he took deep breaths to calm himself. Mrs. Hale's parting words stuck with him, especially as he saw that Margaret was curled in a fetal position, fast asleep, her hand draped languidly over the side of the bassinet, comforting herself by the feel of Milo's chest rising and falling.

He scrubbed at his face wearily, thinking. Margaret _was_ exhausted, but it was a normal amount, surely? She'd just been through a lengthy trial of fire, and all of her emotions were going haywire over it. Her body was recovering at the rate Sister Hurst said it should. She could walk without pain now, and the bleeding wasn't worsening; and she had no fever. Margaret had been adamant from day one that she wanted to care for their children, and if he forced the issue, she'd grow even more agitated. But nor could he allow her to suffer unnecessarily.

He called his mother into the room, wanting her opinion on the hiring of a nursemaid. They stood in the doorway, watching the two slumbering occupants.

"What should I do? Margaret assures me she's improving, and I can see that she is. But she also wants to prove to everyone that she can do this without help. Do you think that'll cloud her view?" he asked softly, his voice thick with worry.

"Women raise their own children all the time, John."

"I know that, but we haven't done this before. I want to do the right thing."

"You think Margaret is lying to you?" Mother asked, her gaze roving over Margaret's wearied form.

"No, not lying. Only unaware, maybe."

"I think we should leave it for now. We'll watch her closely and make sure she's not pushing herself too hard. She does have a defiant nature. But I think we can trust her to know her own feelings."

"Very well," John replied, appeased by his mother's frank words.

"I saw Mrs. Hale leaving in a temper. I gather you didn't let her up?"

"Not yet. Margaret told me she wouldn't like it."

"She insisted on a nursemaid again," Mother realized.

"She said I was sending Margaret to her grave," John whispered wretchedly.

Mother gave an annoyed sigh. "I figured she'd try to guilt you into it. It's fine, John. Margaret is fine."

"I hope so."

.

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The day she was allowed to leave the bedroom, Margaret did so with bated breath. She'd gotten used to having only John and Milo over the past fortnight; grown accustomed to silence and solitude. This foray back into the real world would either delight her or send her scurrying back under the bedcovers in a panic.

John took her arm and helped her walk slowly down the stairs to the drawing room. Her muscles were stiff from lack of use and the residual of strain. John tried to guide her to the sofa, but Margaret drew them both to the balcony instead. She opened the doors slowly, stepping reverently out into the cool summer breeze, running her fingers across the railing, disturbing the tiny water droplets that clung to it from this morning's rain.

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying their kingdom.

All the workers below were busy, hurrying quickly about their tasks. The carts were in the final stages of being loaded, the Montserrat shipment due on the train at noon. The wheels of one cart splashed through a large puddle, spraying a worker with muddy water, causing him and the driver to squabble angrily.

Margaret smiled widely, glad that all the world had kept going, and was waiting for her now that she was ready to return.

John saw her satisfied expression and said warmly; "You're feeling better, then?"

"Very much. I shouldn't have fought those two weeks of confinement; that was exactly what we all needed. I'll know that for the next one."

"The next one?" John asked in amazement. "Are you already looking that far forward?"

Margaret gave a short laugh. "Only abstractly. It'll be a year or two at least, maybe more. I've not forgotten _that_ quickly. But I'm still hanging on to the belief that Milo should have siblings."

John swept his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She snuggled into his embrace and they contently watched the scene below.

The rest of July was a delightful time for all of them. Margaret recovered almost to as she was before. The bleeding stopped and she could move about eagerly with no pain. Breastfeeding was still a little uncomfortable but her improved mood helped mitigate that. Milo had learnt to cuddle against her skin, and he burrowed his head against her whenever he felt her warmth. It was the most adorable thing Margaret had ever seen. His body slowly uncurled as he grew stronger and hardier to his new surroundings.

A congratulatory letter from Fanny arrived, as did one from Edith; both of them telling Margaret that they would love to visit to welcome the new arrival to the family. Margaret wrote back, inviting them for the last week of the month, for Milo's christening.

She also finally allowed Mama to see her and Milo again, the visit predictably strained. John and Mother stayed with them in the drawing room, offering support for Margaret and to try and keep everyone reasonable.

"How are you feeling?" asked Mama stiffly.

"Much better. Sister Hurst says I've recovered wonderfully, and that Milo is growing just as he should," Margaret replied warmly, cooing over Milo, who was asleep in the bassinet at her feet.

"He looks very well," said Mama, smiling slightly at the baby. "Margaret, I want to talk to you about –"

"I don't."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say," Mama said in an annoyed tone.

"Yes, I do. About a wet nurse and nursemaid, and my private life. I'm fine, Mama. I'm very happy and perfectly content," replied Margaret firmly. "I'm not being pushed into anything by anyone, other than you."

"A woman – a mother! – should not do things like that. It's not proper –"

"Says who?" Margaret demanded.

"What?"

"Who says it's improper? You? I'm a grown woman, I can make my own decisions."

"They're not _decisions_ , Margaret, they're immoral! It's not right for a woman to drink liquor, or do that sort of thing to her body."

Margaret glared at her. "What I do within my own marriage with my own husband is none of your business. Why can't you just leave it alone?"

"I always knew you were headstrong but I never imagined you to be insolent. We clearly indulged you too much, letting you read too many novels. I thought your London seasons would impart on you the importance of how one appears in society, but all it did was fill your head with cosmetics and wild dress, and who knows what other scandalous ideas."

"Mama, you never cared about that before –"

"I didn't see the effect it had! It's alright for a debutante, Margaret, but you're twenty-three, you should've left all that behind when you got married!"

"You never told Fred off like this," Margaret accused, her temper rising. "You always excused him when he did wild things."

"You're a woman, Margaret, it's different. Don't be absurd," retorted Mama.

"And you don't even know the half of it," Margaret continued, her resentment making her lash out. "He's done far worse things than ever made the papers –"

"Margaret, stop," Mother cut in angrily. "That is not helpful."

Margaret scowled at her mother, sick of her behavior. She always did this – disrespecting Margaret's decisions, pushing herself into her affairs; but thinking Fred was beyond any reproach, when it should have been the other way around. All Margaret did was enjoy herself with her husband, while Fred did things that would make Mama hysterical if she ever learnt of it.

"Mrs. Hale, I can tell you with certainty that Margaret does not drink, and that she and John are very happy together," said Mother firmly. "As for the nursemaid, Margaret and John are doing fine on their own, and they have a house full of servants, and myself, to help them. And if you want to make this about class differences _again_ , I will have a thing or two to say on the subject as well."

Mama swept her angry gaze around the room, frustrated at her lack of allies. No doubt she thought Mother would've been on her side, and that she'd be able to guilt John into hiring a nursemaid.

"Very well. I can see your conversion to Thornton is complete," said Mama spitefully, turning sourly to Margaret. "I am clearly no longer needed."

"Mama, that's not what I want," Margaret sighed. "I want you here as often as you want to be. But I don't want you to be hostile. I will welcome your advice, but not if you only harp at subjects that have already been talked to death."

Mama pursed her lips in irritation, not liking the turn the conversation had taken. She stayed for a while longer and Margaret allowed her to hold Milo, her son thankfully sleeping through the whole tense event.

After Mama left, John frowned slightly and said; "You shouldn't have said that about Fred, Margaret. I know you were angry, but that would've been very cruel of you, and a terrible way for her to find out."

Margaret sighed, very ashamed of herself. "I know. I was annoyed at her, but that's no excuse. I'm not going to tell her; it will hurt her horribly. And we promised to leave it lie. I'm sorry I brought it up."

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John and Margaret ventured out carefully over the next few days. They walked around the courtyard at dusk, stretching their legs and letting Milo observe his home in his own vague way. He was able to stay awake longer now, and his movements were a little more fluid.

Despite having not liked being pregnant over summer, Margaret told John she was glad they could take Milo outside as often as they did, something that would've been harder in winter.

"He should get to know the place early. He'll be running in and out of the mill soon enough," she said, turning her body so Milo was facing towards the loading dock, so he could see the hundreds of machines inside.

"We'll have to watch him. The workers are going to find him a right nuisance if he's getting in their way all the time."

They took Milo to the schoolhouse the next day so that Margaret could show him off to Miss Evans and Bessy.

"Oh, he's beautiful, ma'am," said Miss Evans admiringly. "He's the tiniest baby I've ever seen!"

"I've never seen eyes that colour before," mused Bessy. "They look more grey than blue."

"I think they'll darken later. Mrs. Thornton says John's eyes were similar when he was a baby," smiled Margaret.

John was pleased when many of his employees stopped to congratulate them both, and say how well the baby looked. When they went to the mess hall to check on everything, they were surprised when everyone broke into a round of applause, all standing up and cheering at the sight of their master's child.

Higgins came forward, grinning widely. "'ere, we all clubbed together and got 'im this," he said proudly. It was a handsomely crafted wooden train, the engine and carriages joined together by a string so that the toy could be pulled along.

Margaret smiled happily, tears in her eyes. "It's marvelous. Thank you, all of you."

"Aye, thank you," said John warmly, vastly pleased that everyone was satisfied enough by his and Margaret's efforts towards the mill to bestow a gift on them.

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The first day John went back to the mill full time, Margaret had despaired, even though he was only across the courtyard. She had wandered restlessly around the house, before finally taking Milo to John's office.

"Is everything alright?" he asked concernedly, half standing when she and Milo came in to the room.

"Yes. Only I feel odd without you," said Margaret, a little annoyed at herself. She wasn't normally so needy.

"Was it too soon? I can bring some of this back to the house with me –"

"No, it's fine. I think I'll just… sit with you a little while."

John smiled warmly, waving her to her chair. Milo was awake but was content to simply look at Margaret as she shifted around in her seat, reading over the mill ledgers and catching herself up with all she'd missed over her confinement.

"An order from the Crown?" she said, surprised, reading the London address of the buyer.

"Aye, there is talk of war," said John gravely. "The Cabinet wrote, requesting cloth for the uniforms of the forces who are to be involved. A hundred thousand men."

"War with Russia?" asked Margaret, biting her lip. She'd being paying only vague attention to the papers, consumed by other things.

"Possibly. All the politicians are arguing over whether it's imminent or whether others are exaggerating the issue; it's all very indecisive. But they no doubt want to be prepared if it comes to war."

That was distressing. Margaret, by extension of Edith's connections, knew many British officers. Charles himself might be expected to participate.

"It probably won't come to anything for Britain. They are actively trying to stem the tide," said John comfortingly.

Margaret didn't think they'd be successful. These things always had a way of escalating. But she found she wasn't able to dwell on the dread of it, her life too happy right now for her to focus on anything but her family.

She decided to ease herself back into her mill work, starting with reading through the pile of paper that was in her tray on John's desk. He'd dealt with the most pressing matters, including repairs to the pipes in one of the tenement buildings, but the rest he'd left for her. One of the letters was a notice of leave from one of their tenants, who was to move to Liverpool and take up dock work. Margaret would have to view the flat and then ask around the mill and print factory for the next occupants. She soon lost herself in the tasks, glad to be back doing something she enjoyed. A lot of the letters were from the wives of their acquaintances and business contacts, congratulating her on the baby.

"Have you been getting letters like this too?" she asked John, raising the missive from a tailor's wife.

"A few. All the other mill masters send baskets, as did some of the Exchange. That's were all that fruit has been coming from," he replied amusedly.

"That was kind of them," said Margaret happily. "We've been a bit more withdrawn from everything that one is normally meant to be. We never opened the house so that everyone could view the baby."

"I'm rather glad we didn't. That would've been stressful for everyone. Milo barely likes anyone else as it is."

"We'll have to introduce him to people properly soon. We can't have him think we're the only two people in the world," said Margaret, smiling at Milo. He scrutinized her cautiously, as though wondering what they were doing in this new place that smelt of wood and metal.

Over the next few days, Milo began to express himself in new ways other than crying. He discovered he could make odd whining sounds and seemed pleased by his new skill, huffing often at them. Margaret made it into a game of sorts. She'd leave him in the bassinet and go about her business, until Milo made a noise and she would appear back at his side and fuss happily over him. She'd leave him again, waiting several minutes until he made a noise again and rush back to coo at him. She knew he wasn't able to understand it yet, but she wanted him to learn that he could call her with his voice.

Mother had new visiting cards engraved for Margaret, adding Milo's name and date of birth beneath her own, and took the cards around to all their acquaintances and business contacts when Mother went to pay calls on them. This was a compromise over Margaret not wanting the house to be opened for everyone to view the baby; choosing to have everyone visit for luncheon after the christening, rather than in drips and drabs over the weeks.

Fanny and Edith arrived with their husbands the day before the christening.

"He's beautiful, Margaret," said Edith warmly. "And how quiet he is! Gabriel is a little terror. The nursemaid can barely keep up with him when he get's running."

"I hope my babies are that quiet. I would be very out of sorts to hear them crying unhappily all the time," mused Fanny.

"Oh, he cries alright. Usually at the most inconvenient times," Margaret laughed. She held out her arms for Fanny to take the dozing child. Fanny cupped his head awkwardly, but as soon as Milo's weighted settled into her arms, she relaxed and smiled happily at him.

"How was Brighton?" Margaret asked her. "Just as fun as you imagined?"

"It was wonderful! Our hotel was right near the sound and we went out to the beach almost every day. I was surprised at how often the sea changed. Sometimes it was freezing cold, the wind just howling off the water. Other days it was so hot that we had to return to our rooms early to cool off. The Pavilion was such a funny looking place; those domes make it look so odd!"

The next morning, Margaret and John woke early and prepared for the journey to the church. Margaret chose a white cotton gown with no embellishments, wanting Milo's beautiful gown to be the point of focus. The christening gown had been Mother's own from her youth, one of the few things she had managed to save over the ups and downs of her life. Both Fanny and John had been christened in it, and Margaret was very pleased that the tradition was to continue through the family. Milo loved the feel of the lace on the edge of it and rubbed his arms against it throughout the carriage ride.

Their guests arrived promptly, and everyone filed into the church. Mother carried Milo up to the clergyman, followed by Charles and Edith, who were to be Milo's godparents, and then John and Margaret. Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw her mother make another face when Milo's name was announced to the crowd.

When the sign of the cross was drawn on his forehead, Milo looked appalled, and then downright horrified when the clergyman poured the water over his head. Margaret had to press her lips together so she didn't laugh out loud.

At the luncheon back at the manor, Mrs. Roberts outdid herself, displaying a multitude of dainty sandwiches and tiny white cakes and bonbons, along with jellies and fruits for the warm weather. Everyone smiled admirably over the baby and asked after his and Margaret's health. A few closer friends, such as the women from the Ladies Aid, gave Milo gifts of clothes or toys.

After everyone took their leave, Edith and Margaret were left alone with the baby, John having gone to the mill to see to some dispute that had come up over the amount of ells needed for the present order.

"How are you feeling?" Edith asked Margaret. "I remember how trying Gabriel's christening was; everyone you've ever spoken to in your life coming into the house in droves to see the baby."

"I am rather tired," Margaret admitted. "It's a small thing, but having to get up half a dozen times a night is exhausting, even if I don't move very far."

"Are you… coping with that?" Edith asked hesitantly, no doubt having heard from her mother or Mama herself over the riff this had caused in the family.

"It's been much more emotional than I imagined. It's perfunctory, but it also came with so many more nuances than I thought it would. But I'm very glad I'm doing it."

"That's what I didn't like; the bother of it. But you look very well, the both of you," Edith observed warmly. Margaret smiled happily at her cousin, pleased to have someone else on her side as well.

"Are you going to have another baby?" she asked wryly.

"I hope so. Gabriel's two now, he ought to have a sibling that he can play with. My childhood was quite lonely until you came along," replied Edith, regarding Margaret a little sadly.

Margaret reached over and took Edith's hand. "I'm very grateful that I went through all of that with you, Edith. I never would've survived in London without your wit and charm to pull me along. Thank you."

.

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A letter of congratulations arrived from Fred the next week, Margaret having written him a quick note a few days after Milo was born, assuring him of their safe delivery.

'It's hard to imagine you as a mother! It seems like only yesterday the two of us were running barefoot through the back garden, stomping all over Mother's flowerbeds. You must send me a daguerreotype as soon as you have one done, so that I can see my little nephew. Milo is the perfect name for him. I'm not a bit surprised that you've chosen an unusual and earnest name. I gather Mother has kicked up a fuss over this whole business, as if she's some authority on children. All she did was pay someone else to raise us, and look how we turned out! A layabout renegade and a wild woman who married down? Don't listen to a word she says, Maggie, make your own way. You and John are such sensible people; you'll know what to do. You'll also be pleased to hear that I've been rather sensible myself. I've a tiny loft in a building that's full of artists; everyone coming and going at odd hours and doing the most hilarious things. Don't worry, I've not forgotten my routine, but it has been fun to go about with people who are so similar to me. I've been painting a bit, though I'm terrible at it, and writing some. It's only silly ramblings, but the others like them and so I've kept with it. One of my particular friends is Felipe. He's an artist like you, rather good at it, and makes his living painting portraits. He's from a wealthy family but ran off to make a go of it himself – sound familiar? He's been teaching me Spanish and how to get about in Madrid. I'm very happy here, Maggie. I know it's far away and so different from England, but I am. I will come back for a visit this Christmas or next perhaps, if you want you're first Christmas with Milo to be without me hanging about. But I think I've found the place I belong. I'm sorry it's so far. But I know you'd tell me that you'd rather me be happy, and so I will say that's exactly what I am. Supremely happy, just as you are. You're loving brother, Fred.'

Margaret read through the letter over and over again, each word like a comforting smile from her brother. His letters had been increasingly positive as he improved his life and Margaret felt just as he said she would – sad that he was so far from her, but content that he was happy and surrounded by friends.

Her own happiness continued to grow as Milo did. Each day he grew a little stronger and began to develop into his own person. Mother said they ought to strengthen his muscles so that he'd be ready to sit up. John would sit on the floor with him and slowly pull him into a sitting position, holding his heavy head. The first time, Margaret burst into giggles at Milo's look of incredulously that the world could be turned upright. Milo sat so stiffly too, his little limbs not able to fold comfortably yet. He still didn't like to be given a bath and would blubber unhappily throughout, no matter how short a time he spent in the basin. Margaret had John bathe him, not trusting herself to hold his slippery form.

He smiled at her for the first time a few days after his christening, when she woke at midnight to feed him; it made every sleepless night and every ache over his delivery completely worth it. Milo smiled just as John did, with his whole expression; his eyes scrunched up, his little nose wrinkled. Margaret reveled in his smile for a few seconds, savoring it just for herself, before gently waking John so that he could experience it too. When he saw his father, Milo let out a gasping whine as he smiled, which they decided was him trying to laugh.

Milo's senses also began to develop more, and he was now interested in his rattle and the toys they dangled in his bassinet. He would push his hands against the object in an effort to explore them further, but wasn't able to grasp them yet, and his attention would soon wonder to something else.

Mama came to visit a few times. The visits were stiff, all the occupants tense, but none brought up anything besides Milo's progress and so nothing monumental occurred. Margaret could see that Mama was still displeased by her, but didn't voice it. She wondered if Fred had written to her. Margaret was glad that they were repairing the riff. She wanted Milo to have all his family around him.

.

The only point of contention in her life was her and John. She wasn't even sure if she could name what she felt towards him right now. She had lost her aversion to him touching her, and in fact he was immensely comforting and supportive, and she wanted him near her always. And while she could certainly remember pleasurable times with him, at the moment the two sides of him wouldn't mesh in her mind – the John that was her husband and the John that was her lover. They hadn't been together since her birthday, both of them having been too preoccupied and tense during the later stages of her pregnancy. And now it looked as though they'd have to wait even longer.

"I feel like I'm neglecting you. I haven't been interested in you for weeks," she admitted sadly, the two of them talking softly so as to not wake Milo. "I _want_ to be, but I can't. I don't know what to do."

He hugged her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. She saw a brief flash of hurt flint across his features before it disappeared. "It doesn't matter; I don't feel neglected. We've got something else far more important to think of right now."

"But I feel terrible about it. It's not good, John, if there's nothing there, if you can't be satisfied –"

"Margaret, stop. I've gone without you before and I can do it again. I went without you for years before I even knew it was you I wanted," he said earnestly, smiling a little. "I'm fine. It's you who is important right now. I'm not… upsetting you when I hold you? It's not distressing?"

"No, I like it," she assured him, shifting closer to prove her point. "But there's nothing more to it."

"That's fine. Just concentrate on Milo. Everything else will fall into place later."

She sighed, mollified by his matter-of-fact tone. She knew he must be upset by her lack of interest, but did recognize it was what was best right now. "Will you tell me if it gets worse for you? I don't want this to get out of control," she whispered.

"I will," he promised. "But truly, my love, I'm not thinking about things like that. I'm focusing on Milo, just as you are."


	43. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; and pay them at thy leisure, one by one"

At two months of age, Milo was able to lift his head a little and tried often to look about the room this way. They lay him on his stomach on the carpet and dangled his rattle above him to get him interested in looking around. It was amusing to watch; all his baby wrinkles crowding together as he lifted his head and rolled his eyes in an effort to keep the toy in view. He'd wiggle about and fling his arms out to try and reach for them or the rattle, though he couldn't maneuver himself around yet.

"Everyone says babies are easy to entertain, but I could just as easily entertain myself by doing this all day," Margaret giggled.

John smiled at her, pleased by her happiness. Margaret was delighted by Milo and the two of them had bonded well. Now that her mother had drawn back and Fred wrote to assure them of his contentment, Margaret became herself again – bright and sunny. She also began to take up her work again, going over everything in the drawing room or in the office with him. They picked up from where they had left off, though both of them made space for more free time to devote to their son.

John had been upset by her admission that she wasn't interested in him right now, as any spouse would be to hear such a thing, but he was more upset that she was distressed over it. This _was_ the longest they'd gone without each other since they'd married, but John told the truth that he didn't care. Both of them were too tired at night or busy during the day for either of them to be paying attention to anything other than Milo, which was exactly how it should be. Mostly he was just glad that she let him touch her again at all. And it wasn't as though she was completely turned off him; she was still affectionate, and glad to have him near her, to such a degree that she became rather restless when they were separated. He was happy to wait until she was fully recovered and willing, whenever that happened to be.

"I know Mother said babies only crawl after six months, but he looks halfway there already," Margaret observed happily, watching Milo try and push himself up by his arms.

"I think we should appreciate the fact that he can't more very far. We'll be run off our feet in no time," John grinned.

"For a baby that can't move he certainly makes enough mess," she sighed, reached over to wipe up the dribble that threatened to pool onto the floor. "I never knew that baby spit up stained clothes. And it isn't anything other than milk! I feel terrible for the scullery maid."

"I didn't know babies slept that much. And even though he does, we're still tired from getting up all the time. You'd think a baby that sleeps sixteen hours a day would be easier to look after."

Margaret snorted. "He's a good sleeper, but not a good feeder. Last night I made the mistake of shifting into a more comfortable position and he didn't like that at all. It took me almost an hour to get him to feed again. His thoughts are so single-minded that when he's interrupted it's like it gets knocked completely out of his head."

John grinned. It was an apt observation. Even though his attention wandered easily, Milo was obsessed over each new thing he learnt and would spend ages making whining noises, or smiling or wiggling about on the floor. He could recognize them now and flailed about excitedly when they came near him. He wasn't particularly keen on anyone else at present, which worried Margaret a little. She didn't want him to struggle when he interacted with new people, but John thought it was fine; Milo was being bombarded with so much new information, it made sense that he should want to comfort himself with the familiar right now.

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.

Wanting to bring Milo with her as she went about her day, Margaret made a sling for him, constructed from sturdy lien and tied securely. Milo loved burrowing in the warm nest it made against her chest and it let her do two things at once – watch over him and still go over the mill yard and the tenements as she used to. John took him to his office in the bassinet when she needed a break, both of them finding it a good sign for Milo's future that the noise of the machines didn't seem to bother him.

"And you didn't want me to go to the mill when I was with child. That's why he's so calm about it, he heard it all before he was born," Margaret grinned.

John made a face at her. "You know I only said that because I wanted you two to be safe. You need to stop being right about everything; you're ruining my ability to argue with you."

She snorted. "Not that that'll stop you from trying."

.

Even without the hospital, Margaret still found her days to be incredibly busy and tiring. Her and John tried to keep to the same schedule every day so that Milo might learn the patterns for activity and rest. Mother had been right about rising a child being a constant experiment – what pleased Milo one day infuriated him the next. He liked the feel of the lace that edged many of his baby dresses, until one day he cried fitfully when John tried to dress him in one. Sometimes he was content to lay calmly in the bassinet, other times he didn't want to be put down and sobbed hysterically when Margaret so much as shifted her hold on him. It was exhausting but also inexplicably joying as they watched Milo grow and change right before their very eyes.

Mother was full of advice and always willing to look after Milo if Margaret and John needed a break or if something pressing came up in the mill. Caoimhe too, having helped look after the younger ones in the foundling home, was an enthusiastic caregiver if they needed. This was far out her scope of lady's maid duties, but as she told Margaret amusedly, she'd never been a conventional lady's maid anyway.

The first time Gus looked curiously at Milo in his bassinet, the whole room erupted in a panic; Gus shying away at Margaret surprised yelp, Margaret thinking the large dog would accidently hurt the baby, and Milo crying out because he got a very unpleasant wet nose pressed to his own.

She rushed over to comfort the bawling Milo and anxiously pet Gus who was now also on edge. When John came home a few minutes later, Gus hurried over to him, demanding attention from something that didn't screech.

"What happened?" John asked concerned, scratching Gus behind the ears.

"Gus wanted to see the baby and we all overreacted a bit," Margaret replied, bouncing Milo gently. She turned Milo and held him out slightly so that he could see Gus again, but Gus was annoyed by both of them and didn't come closer.

John grinned. "Oh dear, I hope that relationship hasn't been ruined before it started."

Margaret sighed. "Yes, hopefully he forgets about it before we try again. We need them both to get along."

"And the cat?"

"He's fine. He's not interested in the baby but he'll sit with me if I'm alone."

"So a very tense house," John teased, reaching out to take Milo from her.

"Hopefully not for much longer."

.

Milo became more receptive to their voices and other noises in the house, and would intently watch whatever it was that was making noise. He also found he could use his hands to explore and would eagerly try to grab anything they put near him, to learn the feel of it. When he was left to his own devices he put his hands in his mouth and explored those instead.

By September, Milo had started sleeping through the night more, so they moved him up to the nursery and to his ornate crib. The room was directly above theirs, so they were able to hear when he cried. John was a light sleeper and would always wake when Milo cried for attention. They'd take turns going up to soothe him, John bringing him down to their bedroom if he was hungry.

Margaret had trouble sleeping the first few nights without him in the room, dreaming or imagining that she had heard him screaming fitfully for her. But whenever she went up to check on him, he was always asleep. Sometimes she'd accidently wake him with her intrusiveness, and was punished by having to rock him back to sleep again. But she soon relaxed as they all adjusted again to this new routine.

.

.

.

"Master? Can I... speak wit ya?"

A small hesitant voice sounded from beside the mill gates when he passed through on his way to the print factory. John looked over and saw a young woman holding a baby. She looked exhausted and malnourished, both her and the baby wearing ragged clothes.

John frowned. This woman wasn't one of his employees. "Yes?"

"I was 'oping you 'ad work," she said tiredly. "I've 'eard some o' the others say you've a school 'ere, for the little one. I lost my place at Slickson's afore the baby. And my husband."

He sighed heavily. He didn't have any work for the woman. Nor could he compel Slickson to give her the place back, since it was within his right to no longer employ someone who was unable to work. It would be next to impossible for her to find work with a child that young; the baby didn't look to be much older than Milo. He didn't want the mill to turn into a halfway house but he also couldn't let the pair starve.

"I've no work for you. But there's a room in the schoolhouse you can stay in. You can keep the child in the infants' room while you look for work."

"Thank ya, sir," she said, relieved.

He led her into the courtyard and to the schoolhouse. He spoke briefly with Miss Evans, telling her his plan. Miss Evans' old room was bare except for the bed and stove, but the woman sank gratefully onto the mattress.

"The mess hall has already been closed for the day but I'll arrange for some food to be sent to you, and some things for the baby," he told her. She nodded, but didn't reply, already laying down on the soft bed. John wondered how long she'd been without proper food and shelter.

He went to the kitchen and spoke with Mrs. Roberts, asking for a plate of food to be sent to the woman, and some hot water. He then went up to the drawing room where Margaret was sketching Milo, who was contently laying on his stomach on the floor next to her. He told Margaret what had happened, her eyes filling with tears at the story.

"How awful," she whispered. "I'll go down and see her this evening, after she's rested a bit."

When Margaret returned from her visit with the woman, she looked even gloomier. "Her name is Connie. She told me she's no relatives we might send her to, or friends that are willing to house her. No one but us could employ her with a child that young, and we've no work. But I've told her that she can stay in the schoolhouse until she finds work and board, since I filled the vacant flat weeks ago."

"That's fair," John replied, though he hoped Margaret would've given the woman a more concrete timeframe. "She looked as though she needed a good rest and a meal. That'll ease her stress."

.

Connie was still staying at Marlborough Mill by the Thornton dinner, but John didn't really mind. Having her here wasn't a hardship on them, and she told them that she was actively looking for work.

When the evening of the dinner party arrived, Margaret came into their bedroom looking rather harried.

"This will be the longest I've been separated from Milo since he was born. What if he doesn't like it?" she asked him fretfully.

John smiled at her. "He'll only be upstairs, love. Caoimhe's watching him. He'll probably sleep through the whole thing anyway."

"I hope so. And I thought I'd be happy to have lost enough weight to fit back into my evening gowns but perhaps I was being too impatient. I feel rather uncomfortable," she observed, looking herself over, her nose wrinkled in slight distaste.

"You look beautiful, darling," he assured her, wrapping his arms around her. He was sorry to see Margaret's round belly disappear, but she did look just as lovely now.

All their guests arrived, many of them asking after Milo and the ladies observing how well Margaret looked, which John was glad of. Hopefully that would help buoy her spirits over how she thought she appeared. Margaret was slightly preoccupied during dinner, her mind no doubt on Milo upstairs. She was preoccupied enough not to notice Harkness eying John with a self-satisfied gaze, though John wasn't.

Only over the port later, his face ruddy with drink, did Harkness begin to unravel the reasons for his odd behavior.

"Your wife is looking rather well, Thornton. Motherhood suits her," he said loudly, slurring his words slightly.

"It does," John agreed, a little annoyed at his rudeness; men normally weren't supposed to comment so directly regarding a new mother.

"You must be run ragged with two children – forgive me – a child to now care for," he continued, smirking.

"It's been an adjustment," John replied, perplexed at the slip, but putting it down to Harkness's inebriation.

"It heartening to know you're not as rigid as you'd have everyone think. I knew anyone that morally superior was bound to be hiding something," Harkness guffawed, looking around at the table to see who else was amused by his statement.

No one seemed sure what to say, all looking at Harkness in confusion or embarrassment, as he was rather too drunk for it to be polite. A few glanced questionably at John, as if for an explanation. John didn't have one. On the surface it seemed as though Harkness was congratulating him on involving himself in the raising of his child, but the words didn't quite fit. Harkness didn't elaborate, instead returning to the decanter. The last few dinner parties that John and Margaret attended, Harkness had been a little unkind then too. His mill hadn't had the leap in production that Marlborough Mill did over last summer or this one, and John believed he was irritated by that.

After they rejoined the ladies, Harkness waved Margaret over to where he and John were standing. "I was just saying to you husband how well you looked," he said genially.

Margaret smiled a little. "Thank you."

"And how well you've kept up under this shocking news."

"What news?" asked Margaret, confused.

"Ah. I see you've not put the pieces together. No matter, it's nothing to trouble you with. You should be focusing on your own son," returned Harkness, his tone one of stirring up trouble. Clearly, he meant to say exactly what he did over this 'shocking news'.

"What pieces are those?" Margaret asked, annoyed by his behavior.

"Why, the mother and child being housed in the mill, of course. You must've been shocked to learn such a thing of your husband. I know we all were. But you're handling it surprisingly well," intoned Harkness, giving John a nasty smile.

John looked in horror at Margaret; this being the very thing she'd been afraid of these past months. But to his intense relief, she didn't look distraught, only angry.

"What dreadful stories you bandy about. It was I who met her first and let her stay here," Margaret replied coolly, choosing to cover for John. "She's no connection of John's, not matter what despicable things you might be thinking." Margaret turned away resolutely and went to speak with Mrs. Latimer.

John clenched his fist to try and control his temper. It didn't look as though anyone other than the three of them had heard Harkness's implication, and John didn't want to cause a scene, no matter how much he wanted to strike him for his audacity. He turned and looked Harkness square in the face.

"I think it best if you leave," John bit out.

Harkness looked as though he wasn't sure what to do now. Neither Margaret or John seem to have responded the way he thought they might. He turned to the next closest group of people, as if going to repeat the lie, but John held his arm firmly. "As I say, you ought to leave. I think you've overindulged."

Holding his arm surreptitiously, John steered him in the direction of the door, not releasing him until they were at the landing. Hayden was standing to attention in the hall.

"Please ask for Mr. Harkness's carriage to be brought around. He is leaving early," John called to the boy, who nodded and went to do his bidding. John stared down the other master. "If you ever repeat that sordid tale, you will regret it."

Harkness glared at him. "You're going to claim there is no truth to it?"

"It is not a claim; it is a fact. It was Margaret's doing," John stated angrily, deciding to continue Margaret's cover, agreeing with her reasoning that it made the matter appear better.

The arrival of Harkness's carriage interrupted their conversation. Harkness's driver had to help him inside, the man being rather more inebriated than he appeared. Despite the lateness of the hour, and their guests, John made to go across the yard to confront Connie.

"No, John. Leave it for now," said Margaret, catching him before he made it down the stairs; having followed the men out of the drawing room, guessing John's plan.

"Why? It clearly came from her. I want an explanation," he growled, his calm pretense giving way to biting temper.

"Not while you're angry. You'll frighten her and we don't know the truth yet."

John whirled to face her, shocked. "The _truth_? You don't think I would –"

"No, John, of course I don't," Margaret said soothingly. "I meant the truth about the origin of the story. It might not have come from her. Anyone else whose been in and out of the mill this past fortnight would've seen her. It might've even started innocently; you know how gossip works."

"I didn't do _anything_ , Margaret, I promise you. I didn't even know her name until you asked her – that sounds even worse; I _promise_ I've been faithful –"

"John, it's alright," Margaret cut in, squeezing his hand. "I know you have. I'm sorry if my being distant had aggravated this –"

" _No_ –"

"Please, John, stop. I don't need to be reassured; I know it's not true. I only meant that I wanted to be honest with you about how I was feeling, not accusing you of anything. We're working through it fine, I think," said Margaret, biting her lip.

"We are," he told her earnestly, his anger vanishing in light of this new distressing conversation. "My feelings haven't changed. I want to wait until you're completely ready, nothing else."

"Then everything is fine," she replied, smiling comfortingly at him. "This is rather annoying, especially if it does turn out to be from her, particularly after the kindness you showed to her, but nothing more. We've still guests inside, so we'll wait until tomorrow to do anything. And I will go by myself. She might be more forthcoming if it's just me."

"Very well," he sighed. John leant his forehead to hers, finally soothed by her words.

.

.

.

Margaret was more irritated than she revealed to John about the situation. There were plenty of women with children in the mill and no story like this had ever been bandied about before. It was a strange one, more likely to be about an overseer and worker, not a master. But it was clearly not so outlandish as to not gain traction; Harkness seemed to think there was truth to the story, but was also the only one who believed it.

She went down to the schoolhouse the next afternoon, after she saw Connie return from where ever it was she went every day. Margaret had assumed she was out looking for work, but this new story made her doubt that a little. Margaret knocked on the door and was admitted, Connie smiling at her. Margaret eyed her, trying to see if she behaved any different in her presence than she normally did. The baby was on the bed, playing with a rubber ball. Margaret felt the ludicrousness of the story again as she looked at the child. The boy looked nothing like John, being redheaded and pale, and not enough like the mother to suggest it either.

"Connie, I've heard a rumor making the rounds and I wish to ask you about it," Margaret said, not wanting to string this out.

A brief look of alarm flashed across her face before Connie jutted out her chin. "Wha' rumor?"

"About your child. His parentage."

"'is father is dead. Died over th' winter."

"And there's nothing else you want to tell me?" Margaret asked, raising her eyebrow.

Connie scowled at her. "No. If ya dinna mind, it's time for 'is nap," she said, taking the ball from the child and picking him up.

Margaret sighed. It seemed as though she was going to have to be more direct if she wanted answers. "I've heard a rumor that you are claiming my husband as the child's father. I wish to know if you are responsible for this untruth."

"Wha' would I get out'a that?" asked Connie sullenly, not meeting Margaret's eye.

"Money? Employment? To compel him to take the child? You tell me," said Margaret. She wanted to give Connie the benefit of the doubt, but watching her evasiveness, Margaret was starting to think that this story had indeed come from her.

Connie looked shamefaced. She held the boy closer to her, finally looking at Margaret, her expression one of desperation.

Margaret sighed. "Why would you try such a ridiculous story? You must've known no one would believe you. And after the kindness my husband showed you. He didn't have to act as he did."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she whispered. "I wasn't doin' it to be unkind to you direct. I was doin' it 'cause I dinna trust that you'd do as you said."

"Who else did you tell the story to? Have you even been looking for work?" asked Margaret, trying to find a reason for the odd tale.

"Aye, I have! Only none's been hirin'. After 'arkness was cruel over it, I said me and the child were being kept at Marlborough Mill, and that the master there was willin' to hire me even if 'e wasn't. And tha' he put me up there. I meant it as I wouldn't 'ave the child with me but he thought it was somethin' more. I dinna say it outright, but I let 'im think it was true, thinkin' I might get some money from ya to keep quiet. So I could care for the baby."

Connie's explanation made Margaret's irritation lessen a little. It was a ludicrous route, and not a very intelligent story, but the woman had done it to help her child, and had probably been exposed to more than her fair share of dishonesty in her life.

"We won't give you any money. But I'll not send you away either," Margaret told her. "Although, I can't say what more I can do for you now. You've largely ruined your own reputation with this. Nobody believed your story, and no one would want to employ a liar."

Connie's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I was only thinkin' of 'im." The child began to cry, perhaps upset by his mother's distress.

Margaret thought for a moment. She wanted to help the boy at least; he shouldn't suffer for his mother's foolishness. Connie couldn't stay here indefinitely.

"I will ask the matron at the foundling home if they are in need of a wet nurse," Margaret decided. "They are not paid but they are allowed to keep their own children there while they care for the others. I know that's perhaps not what you wanted, but I don't think I can do better than that, not after this nonsense."

The matron agreed to the adding of another wet nurse and so Margaret took Connie to the home, also promising to write her a good character reference when the time came for her to find new work elsewhere. Margaret left her there gladly.

"What a mess," Margaret sighed, sinking down on to the sofa next to John and Milo. "I think that's rather put me off helping people for the next little while."

"I didn't consider how it would look to others," John replied, making a face.

"It didn't look like anything besides us helping someone in need. Only Harkness was stupid and mean enough to think the story had any truth. No one else would've believed it if she had told it to them."

"I don't care what they think of me, it was you I was worried about," said John, his expression tense again.

"I'm fine," she assured him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "I was only irritated at her, nothing else."

Margaret made an exaggerated look of glee at Milo who was sitting contently in John's arms. "Wasn't it silly?" she asked him playfully, tickling his feet. "Everyone has been so silly lately!"

Milo grinned at her, his little fist in his mouth. He tried to kick his feet out of reach, drooling over his chubby hand. Margaret continued to chatter at him, loving his smile. Suddenly, he giggled.

Margaret and John stilled, both of their faces lighting up. "Was that a laugh? Are you laughing at me?" she asked him, grinning excitedly. She reached out and tickled his feet again and he repeated the noise, pleased by their attention.

"You are! See, even he knows this whole thing has been silly," Margaret laughed.

"Aye, the only sensible one among us," John agreed, bouncing Milo happily. Milo gave another chirp, delighted to discover a new noise of his. He'd become more vocal over the past few weeks, cooing and blowing raspberries, but this was the first time he'd made such an obvious sound of joy.

He accomplished another milestone a few days later. She and John spent evenings playing with Milo on the drawing room carpet, strengthening his muscles by laying him on his tummy or letting him bob around while he lay on his back. Margaret could see that he was exploring pushing himself against the floor to wobble himself around, but hadn't quite grasped the concept of rolling over yet.

One evening, she was sitting on the floor to his right, coaxing him to roll towards her by keeping his toy elephant just a little out of his reach. Milo gave it a frustrated look and tried to heave himself towards it, tipping back and forth. His chubby arms kept getting in his way and he made an irritated noise. It seemed that sheer determination was enough to compel him to learn a new skill – he tossed himself resolutely onto his side, teetered for a moment, then flopped onto his tummy. The shock of his spin, and Margaret and John's cheers, made him disoriented for a second, but then he happily reached for the elephant and giggled at it.

"He'll be up and crawling in no time," observed Mother, also watching Milo smugly.

Margaret gently lay Milo on his back again and put the toy back. Milo screeched unhappily, but did try and roll himself. He had such a look of frustration that Margaret started to laugh.

"It's heartening to see that he's not thwart by obstacles."

"That'll serve him well," John replied, smiling warmly at his son.


	44. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"So, with two seeming bodies but one heart"

Over October, Margaret immersed herself in her work again. She was unable to return to the hospital yet but she did return to her landlady duties, and helped Bessy and Miss Evan's in the schoolhouse, bringing Milo along in his sling. After she got past her exasperation regarding the fuss about Connie, Margaret grew mindful of the fact that there were numerous women in a similar position. Marlborough Mill had a school, but none of the other mills did.

Margaret drew up building plans and costs, citing their own figures for the project, and resolutely took this to the other mill masters. She made sure to stress that it was cost efficient; as they wouldn't have to pay for the care of the infants if they had a rotation, and they wouldn't have the bother of hiring and firing so often – they could continue to employ skilled workers.

She set a timeframe for herself of a few months to allow the men to be convinced of her plan. If she was unsuccessful with all of them, she would look out another way for the children to be cared for, perhaps setting up an infants' school in Princeton instead. Having someone mind their children was a huge cause of concern for the mill workers, and the thing Margaret received most praise over. She was determined to have others benefit from the scheme as well.

Milo was growing spectacularly. He was almost double in size as he'd been when he was born, now having an adorable fat tummy and chubby limbs. He grabbed anything within reach, even Margaret's hair and necklace. He had a fascination with John's ring and would attempt to pull it off or bite at it. Milo was also getting stronger and could roll himself over arbitrarily and would kick against their hands when they changed his nappy, usually for no other reason than glee that he could. His gaze followed her whenever she moved about the room, or Gus if he was strolling behind her.

He had more control over his facial expressions and beamed heartily when he discovered that if he threw a toy out of his bassinet, she or John would return it to him. It was an exhausting game, but his smile made it worth it. When they did something he didn't like – taking a toy or putting him on his tummy – he'd scrunch up his face in the most delightfully angry way.

.

Her days full and happy, both with her son and her work, Margaret found her attention also began to wander back to John again. She'd catch herself watching him admiringly as he got dressed in the morning, or smoothing her hands over his body while he slept beside her. One night, when they were both talking together in bed, she kissed him properly for the first time in months, half to thank him for being wonderful through all of this, half because she wanted to see what it would feel like. It was warm and comforting and something else, but they didn't keep going; instead, Margaret smiled happily at him and lay her head on his chest while he stroked her hair.

It was a strange feeling, to be so comforted by him and also begin to feel desire for John as well. It had happened that way for her before, as she only thought of him as a lover after he proposed. But it didn't feel quite the same, as this time it was more as though she had to push against a wall that had been built around her desire, instead of merely sink into it, as had been the case the first time.

She tested this, with John's approval, by kissing him deeper, pressing herself closer to him. She had him trail his fingertips over her arms and kiss her neck, wanting to see if her body would awaken. It took some weeks, but soon she began to feel desire blooming inside her again, something that had been missing since the birth.

Margaret walked up behind him while he was getting undressed and wrapped her arms around his chest, kissing his shoulder blade. He stilled his task and moved his hands to cover hers, bringing them up to his mouth to kiss. Their hands still linked together, she slowly began to undo the buttons on his shirt, tracing his muscles with her fingernails. John sucked in a sharp breath when she moved their hands lower, unbuttoning his trousers too.

After he was undressed, he turned slowly in her hands, staring down at her with intense longing. That look made her own breath catch, and her wanting of him increased wildly until she couldn't think of anything else.

Margaret pulled him down to kiss her, the two of them sliding their tongues together frantically. John crushed her to his body. He ran his hands eagerly over her waist, reaching around to impatiently pull at the buttons on her gown. She felt his hardness press against her middle and she broke their kiss with a gasp.

"Too much?" he asked worriedly, his hands halting their task.

"No, just the opposite. It's not enough," she moaned, closing her eyes briefly. "I feel like I'm downing already and you're barely touching me."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, I feel ready. I want you very much. All my memories of it have crashed over me all at once, it seems," she whispered, reached up to kiss him again.

He groaned almost involuntarily at that. He looked chagrined at himself, clearly not wanting to appear too eager and have her think they had to push the issue.

"It's alright, my love. I don't want you to hold back. I'm ready. But let's go slowly. Pretend it's my first time again," she said, grinning at him.

He quirked a smile and continued to unbutton her gown and unlace her corset. After he swept her shift from her, Margaret raised her hands to her body self-consciously, almost as if it really was her first time.

She knew her body had changed. When she was pregnant, her belly had been lovely and round, but even with the child gone, she was still curvier than she'd been before. She had stretch marks on her belly and her thighs that had only just started to fade to silver. Her breasts were larger too, and that didn't feel like a good thing right now.

John saw her flaming face and smiled warmly at her. He gently pulled her arms back down to her sides and started at her longingly. "You are beautiful, darling. You're just as desirable to me now as you were before."

He knelt down and began to kiss the lavender marks on her thighs, working his way up to the ones on her belly. "You are more appealing even, since these are proof that you are the mother of my child. We are bound for life now, my love; linked by blood. You can never be rid of me now."

Margaret didn't know whether she was going to cry at his wonderful words or laugh at his jest. She settled on a gasp of lust as he gently touched his tongue to her. He went slowly, so that they could savor the moment, but also so she could say if she changed her mind. Margaret didn't want him to stop. All of the desire that had disappeared was back with a vengeance, her body yearning for months' worth of touches and caresses that she hadn't wanted earlier.

She wanted to throw herself into this lust, have John bury himself inside her deeply, with utter abandon, just as he did before. But she knew that wouldn't be wise. She had no idea if it would feel different, but she didn't want to push anything yet.

John sat back on his heels and carefully slid his fingers inside her, his other hand holding her thigh comfortingly, rubbing small soothing circles there.

It was simple and yet the most pleasurable thing she'd ever felt. She gasped again, her hand going to his wrist to pull him further inside her. He followed her cue and increased his movements, fluttering his fingers inside her until she was stuttering his name. He added his tongue again; Margaret was so tense with longing that she came apart quickly, moaning with pleasure. John stood and guided her to lie on the bed, settling his body carefully onto hers.

"Did it hurt?"

"No, it felt exactly the same. Heightened even, but I think that's just because it's been so long," she sighed.

John smiled and kissed her eagerly. "Shall we keep going?"

"Yes, but not all the way. No more babies for a while."

He chuckled. "Are you sure? You're gorgeous when you're pregnant."

"Hmph. Come back when _you_ want to spend fifteen hours being repeatedly kicked by a horse. Then we'll talk."

John sighed a little. "I'm sorry, my love, that you must endure such a thing."

"I'm already starting to forget the pain of it," she told him warmly. "And you and I make such handsome babies, it would be a shame to stop at one. But not until he's twenty, mind."

John did laugh at that. "Very well."

Margaret grinned and reached down to take him in her hand, bringing their attention back to what they both wanted most right now. She stroked him slowly, enjoying the feel of him again, then carefully guided him towards her. He locked his eyes with hers so he could watch if her expression changed, and gradually sank into her.

He didn't push himself all the way in, just little by little, testing each other. Margaret waited to see if it hurt, but it didn't. Her body responded the same; her inner muscles clenched around him. John thrust into her a few times, panting heavily, until he got too close, having been a long time for him too. He pushed himself into her completely one final time, kissing her frantically.

Margaret wrapped her hand around him and they shifted only slightly so that she could stroke him. He groaned deeply and moved his hand to cover hers, urging her to hold him tighter. She soon had him moaning her name, his free hand tangling itself in her hair. He shattered fairly quickly, as she had done, but neither minded; this having been more about introducing themselves to each other again, learning the ways their bodies might have changed. Margaret was pleased to discover that it felt the same; just as pleasurable and both of them just as eager.

John moved to lay beside her and she turned to face him, tucking her hands comfortably under her cheek. He kissed her languidly, entwining his legs with hers.

"Only an old married couple could have a conversation about their future family and make love at the same time," Margaret mused drolly.

"We're not old; we're efficient."

Margaret giggled. "So no mistress for you, then? Am I enough?"

He shook his head at her, half amused, half exasperated. "You are more than enough, darling. Besides, why would I want something like that when all I have to do is ask you? Hmm, that sounded more appalling than in my head," he grinned, as Margaret laughed again. He pulled her closer and wound her hair around his fingers. "You certainly couldn't get anyone else. No one but me appreciates your humor, your silly chatter. Only you, Margaret, could ask your husband that so nonchalantly."

"Excuse me, I'm still young and beautiful enough to get a lover if I wanted. I wouldn't have to talk to them."

"That's lucky; he'd run a mile."

They both stared at each other for a moment, marveling at the absurd turn their conversation had taken before bursting into laughter.

"Never change, my darling. You have always been everything I wanted," John sighed, wrapping his arms around her tightly and pulling her close.

.

.

.

Having finally found herself in her marriage again, Milo of course began to become more restless, as though to counteract it. Margaret wasn't sure what prompted it, but it now took him longer for her to get him to fall asleep for his nap during the day, which, for some inexplicable reason, meant he wouldn't sleep at night either.

"Don't look him in the eye when trying to get him to sleep," said Mother, watching her rock Milo into a doze.

"What?" asked Margaret, looking at her mother-in-law incredulously.

Mother smiled at her confusion. "It makes him think you want him to stay awake. Just watch his belly or look somewhere else, you'll see. He'll fall asleep in no time."

Margaret didn't really like that, ignoring Milo when he was in her arms, but Mother was right again. It took a few days, but she finally got Milo to nap peacefully in his bassinet during the day, and he would sleep almost the whole night through as well. This was excellent for all members of the household and led to less sleepless nights and less crankiness.

Milo also also begun to babble more, making distinct sounds, though with no real words yet. Margaret had read in her childrearing book that parents ought to speak correctly to their children, so that they might learn early how to speak in full words. It made sense to her but she found she couldn't keep with it, not when Milo made the most delicious cooing noises when she spoke squeakily to him as they went about their day. John thought she was absurd until he swore that Milo almost said, 'da' at which point he too started jabbering to their child, making Margaret laugh at him.

"He said Da, I swear!"

"He's not old enough to talk yet, he's just saying nonsense," Margaret grinned.

"So are you," John retorted, mock glaring at her.

Gus tried to puzzle out the baby more, but Loaf stayed resolutely away, even though he had no issue with the mill children. Milo however, disliked Gus and screamed like a banshee whenever he saw him, despite Gus's best efforts to be friendly.

"Aw, poor dear," Margaret giggled, petting the dog. "Don't worry, he'll warm up to you soon enough."

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In November, Edith wrote to Margaret, informing her that she and Charles were expecting their second child in May. The letter was far more tentative than previous ones, since talk had been heating up over possible war with Russia.

'I'm afraid, Margaret. What if Charles is called to fight? He assures me that he will hardly be in danger if it comes to it, but that did not appease me. I asked Charles if he would sell his commission but he said he had a duty to the Crown. We actually had a bit of a row over it; one of the first we've ever had. I've been reading the papers in a fervor, wanting to know more about what this will mean for us. Most of the politicians are arguing against British involvement, but Russia and the Ottomans have already declared war on each other, Britain can't be far behind.'

Margaret didn't know how to reassure her cousin. She'd been reading the papers too, and felt as Edith did. There had already been skirmishes between the two belligerents and the British Government didn't want Russia to gain more territories; which made their involvement seem rather inevitable. Marlborough Mill had been tasked with supplying the cotton for the soldiers' uniforms and the order had been completed last month. London certainly seemed to believe there would be war.

Margaret wrote back to Edith, congratulating her over the baby, but she was at a loss as to how to reassure her about Charles. Logic said Edith ought to implore him to give up his commission so that he might be safe for his son and unborn child, but guilting him into doing something would be terrible for his and Edith's relationship, even if it did save his life.

"Would you still go to fight, if it were you?" she asked John, after she told him about Edith's worries.

"I'm sure I would. But I'd like to think we would've talked sensibly about it too. Edith doesn't give an account of her argument, but knowing her, it might have easily been a demand by her for Charles to give up his position," John replied.

"Yes, it could've been," Margaret sighed. "Edith always gets what she wants; she might not have started out the discussion very favorably. I see both sides. Charles shouldn't give up his post, but Gabriel needs him, and Edith does too, especially now."

"He'll have thought of that. He'll have made arrangements for them."

Margaret frowned at John. "That's not as reassuring as you make it sound. Having a spouse is far more preferable than having an annuity."

John sighed too. "Aye, of course it is. But I can tell you from experience that having some… security over it can make it less difficult."

"And if it were me?" she demanded.

John jerked his head away, as though dislodging the thought. "It's not the same."

"Of course it is! You think I wouldn't be any less devastated to lose you than you would be to lose –"

"Stop. We're not arguing about this. It's not our issue."

"Edith is a sister to me. I must do something to help her," Margaret insisted.

"Nothing has happened yet," John reminded her. "It might not come to war, Charles might to go and he might not die. You are stressing yourselves over something that hasn't even begun. If Britain goes to war, and if Charles is called, then I'll argue with you all you want."

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His son was growing quickly and was soon on the move, dragging himself around on the floor and rolling over, having mastered rolling on his right side. He wasn't content with staying in the bassinet any longer and so John made Milo a playpen, the edges weighted down so he couldn't tip it over as he explored. They set it up in the drawing room on the carpeted area and filled the pen with a multitude of toys so that he could entertain himself. Milo was eager to explore his tiny world and would creep his way from one corner to another over and over again. He developed a passion for flinging his toys about in all directions, liking the noise they made when the clattered or flumped to the floor. John and Margaret were happy to let him make a mess, knowing that it was his way of teaching himself new things. A stuffed rabbit was his particular favorite and he often squeaked happily to it. Milo liked the rabbit's long ears and gummed them in his mouth, drooling all over the poor thing.

Milo also seemed to now be able to recognize a few words, to their delight. Milo looked chagrined when told the word 'no' and tried to say his own name. John and Margaret made a point of greeting him with the same words over again, and they also made a ritual of saying good-bye to John when he left for the mill, leading Milo to smack his lips together in a vague 'b' sound, trying to repeat his enthusiastic 'bye-bye'. Despite Margaret's teasing, John was certain Milo had already tried to call him.

Margaret and Mother began to make plans for Christmas. Fanny and Mr. Harris were invited, as was Margaret's parents. The two of them visited Milo often, and the quarrels of earlier seemed to have been put aside. Even Mrs. Hale couldn't deny that Margaret looked very well and that Milo was growing steadily.

John was also vastly pleased at Margaret's recovery, and how the two of them had handled the ups and downs over the first few months of Milo's life. Milo was wonderful, adorable, sometimes exasperating, and it seemed every day he learnt something new about himself, and they about him.


	45. Chapter 43

*A/N Sorry for the late update, but I wanted to make sure I got these chapters perfect.

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Chapter 43

"My grief lies onward, and my joy behind"

For John's birthday, Margaret gave him a tiny mechanical orrery and a cravat pin in the shape of a sword – a private joke about his ruthlessness. Milo, having just learnt how to clap, gave him a round of applause; which both Margaret and John decided was the superior gift.

His son could now sit up on his own and so they put him in his high chair at the table with them. At Mother's instruction, Margaret fed him a spoonful of thin gruel to see if he was ready to eat – Milo simply let the food dribble down his chin, to general amusement.

"Never mind. Try again in a few days, he might be more interested then," Mother said wryly.

A huge snowstorm blew through the city a few weeks before Christmas, setting back production for two days as none of the workers could get to the mill through the blizzard. Despite this slight delay in production, John and Margaret did enjoy the free time making paper ornaments for the tree with Milo, who was a very enthusiastic helper, although not a very dexterous one.

Fanny and Mr. Harris came three days before Christmas, full of news about the new plans they'd made for the estate.

"We're going to try our hand at pigs," said Mr. Harris proudly, accepting a glass of cider from the maid. "I've managed to poach an excellent pig keeper from a farm in Guildford, and he comes highly recommended. All our geese sold very well this Christmas season, so I thought pigs ought to be the next thing we branch into."

John wasn't sure of the logic of that, but both Fanny and Mr. Harris seemed rather excited, so John wished them well.

On Christmas day, lunch was served informally on the sideboard, and there was much talking and laughing from all their guests. They gave out presents in the afternoon, mostly personal gifts of books and jewelry. Even though Milo was too young to understand the point of Christmas, he was given a few gifts by everyone and had great fun shredding open the wrappings, though he didn't care for what was inside. They played Charades, the game made even more amusing by Milo laughing along with them; and read _A Christmas Carol_ aloud.

Later, John gazed contently around the room; his mother chatting happily to Fanny, Mr. Harris and the Hales talking over the mutual places they'd visited. Margaret was leaning against him, her feet tucked up under her, Milo asleep in her arms. This was what John liked best – all his family around him, everyone bright and happy.

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Milo gained several new skills over the winter. Margaret taught him how to play peek-a-boo and how to find a hidden object. Even though he hadn't quite got the hang of words yet, he was very chatty and jabbered away to himself or his toys when they put him in his pen.

He learnt to crawl and would wobble himself around on his hands and knees, his heavy head often causing him to tip himself over. Milo also learnt how to grab things with his hands and the first thing he seized and held on to tightly was of course the very thing he shouldn't – the cat. Luckily, Loaf was only irritated enough to leave the room in a huff, not swipe at Milo.

Since he could now hold things more expertly and kept his food somewhat in his mouth when he was fed gruel, Margaret decided to give him a bit of biscuit softened in water. It was mostly mush, but Milo enjoyed it, picking up small handfuls and cramming them clumsily into his mouth.

"You gave him a biscuit?" asked Mother, when she noticed what the mess over Milo was.

"Yes, was that wrong?" Margaret asked, her stomach swooping in dread.

"No," Mother hastened to assure her. "It's perfectly fine. Only, sweet foods probably shouldn't be given first, as that can make it harder for you to get them to eat other ones."

Margaret was chagrined at herself, but Milo didn't seem to be a fussy eater of solid foods; enthusiastically consuming whatever mushed fares they offered him, though he didn't want more than a mouthful or two of each.

It scared her the first time Milo plopped back down from attempting to stand, but he didn't even cry. Instead he had an intense look of concentration on his face and simply tried again, hauling himself up on his chubby legs, using the sofa leg as a guide. He couldn't stand properly but he giggled manically when he found he could lean his torso on the sofa cushions. Margaret rewarded his effort by seating him on the sofa, while she and John sat on the floor to make sure he didn't roll off.

"He frowns exactly as you do," Margaret observed amusedly, watching John stare at Milo. "His determination is all yours too."

"So you're saying you had nothing to do with him?" John asked her amusedly.

"Apparently not," Margaret giggled.

As soon as he mastered crawling, Milo developed only two speeds – frustratingly slowly; where it took him twenty minutes to eat a single mouthful of food, or lightening fast; where he could get across the room and into mischief in the four seconds that Margaret looked away from him.

He began to cut his first tooth, which made him rather upset over the pain of it, and caused her and John to fret over his pain as well. Margaret made sure that he always had his teething ring or some dried bread to chew on.

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In February, Edith wrote to invite John and Margaret to London for Gabriel's third birthday in two weeks, which was to include watching the parade of Grenadier Guards leave for the Crimea. It was Milo's first time seeing a train and he had a comical surprised face when it came into view, babbling excitedly. He didn't want to stay still in the carriage and resolutely worked his way across the seat from the door to the window over and over again tirelessly, headless of all other occupants of the carriage.

When the arrived at Edith's house, they were shown into the drawing room where Edith was sitting writing a letter.

"Margaret! I'm so glad to see you," she said, embracing her, and shaking John's hand warmly. She smiled at Milo but didn't hold him as she was rather too far along in her pregnancy for her to easily do so.

"You look very well," replied Margaret, admiring her cousin's beautiful pink gown, although Edith did have a fatigued look with which Margaret was very familiar – the uncomfortableness of being pregnant. Edith gave her a wan smile and rang for tea, and for Gabriel to be brought to the room so that he and Milo might meet each other.

Gabriel wasn't shy like Milo and enthusiastically launched himself into chatting with everyone in the room. His childish accent was hard to understand but he said everything with such a big grin that it made everyone else smile as well. Milo regarded the other child warily but brightened when Margaret sat him on the floor at her feet and Gabriel brought a toy for him to play with.

"Are you excited about seeing the soldiers on Wednesday?" Margaret asked him.

Gabriel beamed at her. "Papa a soldier. I'm one too. I'm going to fight!" He began to make his little tin soldiers attack each other.

Edith sighed a little. "He's obsessed with all things military. I've been trying to get him off this topic for weeks, but it's been rather impossible," she said quietly to Margaret and John. "Everywhere you turn people are talking about it. There are flags and soldiers in every street. And Charles indulges him a great deal."

"Has Charles been called up?" asked Margaret, concerned.

"Not yet. But he's been away a great deal with his company, as are many other officers."

"And he will not relent?" asked Margaret carefully.

"No," Edith whispered, "and especially not now that the entire city is in raptures over this."

"I don't think it's a terrible thing for Gabriel to be excited over it. It might bring him a measure of comfort if his father is called up," John told Edith.

"I don't want him to idolize this. I couldn't bear it if my son was a soldier too," said Edith sadly.

Margaret looked at Edith in some anxiety. Edith had adored that Charles was in uniform; loved the prestige of being a soldier's wife. But now, it appeared her views had drastically changed under threat of this new war for Britain. All small boys wanted to be a soldier at some point, but Margaret could see that Edith was truly grieved by what this influence might have on her son's impressionable mind.

Despite her reservations about Charles' part in the war and Gabriel's growing love of warfare, Edith made sure that their trip to Trafalgar Square was fun for Gabriel.

The party arrived a few hours before the parade was scheduled to start, but the square was lined with a great many people already. Gabriel had been given a miniature military coat by Charles as a birthday present and he wore it proudly; many passersby even remarked how distinguished he looked in it, to Edith's exasperation.

While John and Charles talked, Margaret leaned closer to Edith, who was fanning herself anxiously, and said quietly; "Are you alright? Shall I find you a seat?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine," she replied curtly. Then she sighed. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. Or even Charles' which is what irritates me most of all. If I had someone more concrete to blame, I'd be much better off."

Aware of how hypocritically she was being, in light of how she'd behaved in her own pregnancy, Margaret said; "I know it's difficult, but you must try and relax, Edith. Charles hasn't left yet. And Gabriel is far too young for you to be worried about his future career right now. I'm sure he'll change his mind once something more exciting gets his attention."

Edith took a deep breath. "You're right, of course. I do know all that. But belief and execution rarely see eye to eye," she said with something of her old humor.

"That's true," Margaret smiled. "But I do think it best if you don't think on it until it happens. You'll only stress yourself needlessly."

The sound of drums and trumpets interrupted conversation. Everyone surged forward to crowd around the barricades, craning their necks for the first glimpse of the soldiers. John and Charles had their sons on their shoulders so that the boys might see over the mass of people.

As the redcoats marched passed in formation, everyone called out to them, clapping and cheering. They were a distinguished group; their bayonets gleaming in the sun, and their uniforms immaculate, right down to their tall bearskin hats. Gabriel wiggled excitedly, waving madly to his idols. Milo looked bewildered by the fuss and noise, but thankfully didn't cry.

"Do you think they look afraid?" Edith asked Margaret in undertone, her eyes following a particularly young man as he marched passed them.

"I don't believe they'll be afraid until they get there," Margaret replied, also regarding them apprehensively.

It was easy for everyone to get swept up in the excitement – the soldiers looked so noble and elegant, each had a look of pride at serving their country. Battles were always immortalized in poems and ballads, the soldiers given such warm praise over their position. But Margaret was sure that truly being in battle would be very different. She'd seen enough illness and accidents during her time at the hospital to realize that war would be far more gruesome in reality than what the poems would have the public believe.

Watching each of the young men march past, she wondered how many would return home.

The procession was a long one and by its conclusion their party was eager to return to the house for refreshments. Gabriel slept the whole way home, his excitement too much for him.

"And so it begins. All the rest will follow now," Edith vowed agitatedly, as she and Margaret sat together in the drawing room after dinner, waiting for the men to join them.

"Charles will make sure that he's safe. He will be kept out of the worst of it, as will all the other officers," Margaret reminded her soothingly.

"He'll want to be in the very center of everything," Edith worried.

"Edith, you must trust him. He's been a soldier for many years, he knows what he's doing. They are trained for this very thing."

Edith turned and looked at Margaret with a fearful expression. "What will become of us if something happens to him?"

Margaret took Edith's hand and squeezed it tightly. She knew her cousin wasn't referring to practical matters like money. "I don't know. I don't know how I'd cope with something like that. All I can say is that John and I will do everything in our power to help you and Gabriel if you need it. Anything at all."

Edith gave her a quick smile. "Thank you, Margaret. That means a great deal to me."

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Back in Milton, Margaret found that the war had touched her life there too. Sarah visited her and explained that she was going with a voluntary nursing corps to aid British soldiers.

"They've almost no medical care at all. The organization is going to set up a field hospital. There are twenty other volunteers at present, but I know they will try and find more," said Sarah.

"When do you leave?" Margaret asked her sadly. She was very sorry that her good friend was going so far away, and to something so awful. But Sarah approached it with steady enthusiasm, just as she did with all things.

"Next month. I travel to London on Saturday so that I can join the training and we sail after that."

"I will miss you terribly. And I suppose you'll have no idea when you are to return."

"Not for a long while. I plan to stay until the end of it," said Sarah.

"And so you should," Margaret agreed. "But it might go on for months. Perhaps even until next summer. Will your father manage?"

"Oh, I'm sure he will. The charity maids can do all the hard work for him. His mind is still as quick, even if his body is slower. He's rather proud that I'm going. When I was younger, I always thought that he resented that he had no son to follow him, but since I took over and showed how good I am at it, he's been giving me all kinds of praise. And I'll learn a great deal more on this expedition that will help me when I return."

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Unlike London, Milton saw very few changes over the month after the first soldiers left. John and the other masters had several meetings, debating gravely over what the war might mean for their regular contracts from abroad. Nothing much changed, however. The government didn't introduce an embargo anywhere, and not one of the masters had contracts with any of the belligerents, nor did the ships carrying the goods pass through that area.

The only times when the war touched their lives in Milton was when he and Margaret waved off Sarah when she began her training, or when a letter arrived from Edith. Edith was still nervous, and Margaret had worriedly told John that Edith had made no move to discuss her fears with her husband after their first conversation over it. John had spoken to Charles a little, but they weren't great friends for him to press the matter. Charles had simply told John that he'd made arrangements for Gabriel and Edith and reassured John that he truly did not believe that he would be in much danger.

Margaret had conveyed this information to Edith, but they were unsure how it had been received, since no letter was forthcoming for a few weeks following the posting of it.

In the second last week of March, at breakfast, the post was delivered to them on the salver. One of the letters was from Mrs. Shaw; Margaret's brow creased slightly when she saw that.

"I wonder what it could be. Aunt Shaw has not written to us without occasion since we've been married," Margaret observed.

John was absorbed in a letter from Fanny, when Margaret gave a low keen of agony; a desolate sound he had never heard her make before. He lunged to catch her quickly as she collapsed out of her chair in a faint, her letter fluttering to the floor.

Mother bent down to retrieve it. "Oh, no" she whispered sadly. "Edith has died in childbirth… along with her infant daughter."

John closed his eyes in pain. "Dear god."


	46. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

"Have put on black and loving mourners be, looking with pretty ruth upon my pain"

Margaret jolted back to consciousness to find Mother and John staring down at her with such sorrow that she realized that it had not been a dream. She was confused to find herself in John's arms, clutched tightly against his chest. Mother was still holding that wretched letter from Aunt Shaw. Margaret noted listlessly that she could see tearstains marking the ink, ones that had fallen onto the page as her aunt wrote.

Edith. Her darling, cousin, dead. How was she to cope with this?

John pressed his cheek to her hair. "I'm so sorry, my love. I'm sorry," he whispered miserably.

"What happened?" she asked through numb lips, having not read further than the first line. "What happened?" she asked more instantly, after no one answered her.

"Childbirth," said Mother dejectedly, rubbing her forehead. "It was an early labor. Your aunt writes that there were complications."

"The child too?"

"A stillbirth."

Margaret began to cry.

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John had no words. He had been here before; he knew how painful the coming months – and years – would be. He knew there was nothing that could be done, other than to endure it. He held Margaret until her tears ran dry and she slumped into an exhausted sleep. John sent a message to Anderson and Williams, telling them what had happened and letting them know he would not be coming into the factories for the next few days. He also spoke to Caoimhe, telling her the grave news and asking her to pack a trunk for the two of them for their journey to London, and purchase mourning clothes for Margaret and Milo.

Caoimhe's eyes filled with sympathetic tears at their distress. "How awful for Mairead. She loved her cousin as her own sister."

"Aye," sighed John. "We will go and pay our respects. That will help Margaret to grieve."

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The journey the next day was a quiet one, the only noise caused by Milo chattering nonsensically, swinging himself back and forth on his chubby legs, John holding him up. Margaret smiled sadly at her baby, and pressed a kiss to his feathery hair, eliciting a happy warble from him. Mother had tried to convince the couple to leave him behind in Caoimhe's capable hands, but they wanted him with them. They could not have him out of their sight at a time like this, when they needed to be reassured that their own child was still safe and well.

The house was dark and somber when they arrived. The were admitted by a downcast footman who was wearing a black armband, the buttons on his coat appropriately dulled. He gave them a black ribbon to wear as a talisman against the multiple deaths in the house. The heavy curtains were drawn, the mirrors covered, and the clocks stopped to mark Edith's time of death.

John watched forlornly as Margaret took in the shrouds with her hand over her mouth, tears sliding down her cheeks. She'd barely spoken a word since yesterday morning and hadn't slept at all.

Mrs. Shaw was tearful, but Charles was inconsolable. When he saw Margaret, he took her hand feverishly, biting his lip to stop his tears.

"I can't believe it… I was just talking to her. She was perfectly fine. She went into labor early but she kept telling me not to worry… 'I'm fine,' she said. 'I'm fine.' How could this have happened?" he asked miserably, his voice contorted with sadness.

"Her worldly cares are over now, she is happy where she is," quavered Mrs. Shaw.

'She is not! She _wanted_ to stay with her family!"

"Shh, Charles, this is not the time," begged Margaret. "Where is Gabriel?"

"Gabriel?" Charles repeated, as though he'd never heard the name before.

"Your son. Is he in the nursery?" asked Margaret gently.

"He's… I don't know. Edith was with him; they were playing in the garden." Charles stared at Milo, asleep in John's arms. He looked confused at the presence of another child.

Margaret gave Charles a consolatory look, carefully guiding the distraught man to the sofa. She spoke softly to him, but he didn't respond so she left John and her son in the drawing room, while she went to see Edith and her daughter. Margaret returned a long time later, her eyes rimmed red, carrying Gabriel in her arms. The boy was dressed in his white mourning gown, identical to Milo's own.

More guests began to arrive, offering their condolences to the family and receiving a black ribbon. Charles was still lost in himself, barely acknowledging anyone. He didn't respond when Margaret asked him if he wanted to hold his son. John and Margaret exchanged an agonizing look.

They seated themselves on the sofa with the children. Gabriel recognized the drawing room as the place he was brought to meet his mother, and began to heartbreakingly ask for his Mama. His voice was happy at first, but became more insistent, then distressed after she did not appear. Margaret hugged him to her chest, rocking him while she wept softly.

The funeral was set for two days hence, and each of Edith's friends would sit with her body and that of her daughter every moment until the funeral began so that the might not be alone, even in death.

The night passed slowly for Margaret and John. They slept very little, only dozing fitfully, the children laid between them, until either Milo or Gabriel would wake and demand attention. They kept the children with them, not want them to be away from their family at the sad time. Gabriel had picked up on the melancholy mood in the house and was fitful, alternating between crying and screaming angrily.

At one in the morning, Margaret took him to see his mother in a desperate attempt to quiet him, thinking that he would be calmer if he saw her sleeping. They came back shortly after, both of them still agitated.

"He just kept reaching for her, begging for Edith to hold him," said Margaret tearfully. Gabriel was throwing a full temper tantrum now, struggling wildly against Margaret's restraining hold.

"Here, let me hold him. Try and get some sleep, my love," John told her, kissing her forehead. Margaret didn't even protest; she handed Gabriel to him and collapsed exhaustedly to the bed, curling herself around Milo's sleeping form.

He took Gabriel down to the lower floors, walking slowly through the rooms, rubbing his back soothingly until he bawled himself into a wearied sleep. John placed any photographs he found face down, a mourning ritual that had been overlooked in the family's grief.

John understood Charles' agony completely. How heart-breaking to lose one's spouse after so short a time together, and to be the cause of it, even indirectly and utterly unintentionally. Childbirth was dangerous and John had feared it all though Margaret's pregnancy and it continued until after she recovered, at which point the glory of his son had almost blotted the feeling from memory, so much so that he hadn't even considered Edith to be in danger when he learnt of her pregnancy.

Her presence was everywhere in the house, the ghost of her flitting in an out of the shadows. Edith had been such an impressive figure; it was hard to believe she was gone. She drew all eyes when she entered a room; she had a knack for appealing to anyone in conversation. It was all so unfair.

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John minded the two boys for most of the next day, while Margaret helped her Aunt arrange the funeral. They ordered flowers, and the coffins, sent out additional funeral invitations on mourning paper, and arranged the procession. Margaret had asked Charles what Edith had planned to call her daughter, so that the name might be written on the headstone. Charles couldn't remember if they had talked about it. He still would not hold his son.

"Perhaps Isobel, then. She loved that name when we were young," said Margaret sadly.

The day of the funeral, Margaret helped Edith's friends wash and dress the bodies for burial, Edith's beauty immortalized in her favourite gown. Her tiny daughter was dressed in the christening gown that Edith had sewn for her child herself; it's smocking only achingly half-finished.

The funeral was held in the front rooms of the house, Edith and Isobel displayed in their coffins; the latter's one white and tiny. Margaret's black veil made Milo wary of his mother; throughout the service, he kept reaching out to touch the gossamer fabric. The service was a simple and poignant one. Edith was spoken of as a wonderful mother and good Christian woman. Her charity work and her many accomplishments were applauded.

The procession contained more than ten carriages. John was asked to be a pall bearer and rode in the first carriage with the five other men chosen, and the clergyman. The two hearses followed, one black and one white. Margaret and the children and the rest of Edith's family followed in the carriage behind; many others following after that. The length of the procession was a testament to how beloved Edith was; how many would mourn her.

After it was over, Margaret was very reluctant to return Gabriel to his father. It was clear Charles was not aware enough to look after the child.

"The poor boy. What will happen to him?" whispered Margaret. She needn't have bothered, Charles was staring out the windows listlessly, not paying attention.

"The nursemaid is still here," John reminded her soothingly, himself also discomforted by the Captain's state of shock.

"That's not enough; Gabriel needs his father."

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The Thorntons returned home on Friday night, arriving at the station on the last train. It was dark and cold, matching their mood. Laying in bed later, John and Margaret tangled themselves together, occasionally pressing an anxious kiss to their spouse. No words were needed, for both felt the same. They were aching over the sad death and worried about their partner. John was also privately and shamefully thankful it had not happened to them, as much as it caused his heart to squeeze agonizingly as he thought it.

"What happens now?" Margaret whispered.

"The world keeps going. No matter how much you which it wouldn't."

Margaret was silent for a long while. "When will I feel happy again?"

"I don't know, darling. One day you'll find yourself thinking on something happy or laughing again. You'll feel so guilty; almost as if you've forgotten her, or as though you're mocking her. The sadness will return. But it won't be as long. And soon you'll be glad of the time you did have."

"All I can think of is every cross word I ever said to her. That fight we had. The last stupid conversation I had with her, where I never said I loved her, or even said a proper goodbye. The last letter I wrote to her; I'm so ashamed to think of it. I wrote it quickly and only half paying attention because I wanted to move to something else," Margaret sobbed, burying her face in John's chest.

John held her tightly. "I know. There's nothing I can say, my love, that will make it easier. We'll just have to bear it. But I promise I will be with you through all of it."

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Two weeks after the funeral, the Captain appeared unannounced on their doorstep, his son in tow. The Thorntons abandoned their dinner, sitting with the distraught man in the drawing room. He was holding the sleeping Gabriel oddly, as though he never had to before.

"Take him, please," he asked, his eyes on Margaret. "I cannot look after him. He looks too much like her…" He pressed a fist to his mouth and closed his eyes in grief. "I've been called to arms. I leave next month and I can't leave him in that house. I can't send him to my parents either, _she_ wouldn't want it."

Margaret looked lost. "Of course we can look after him while you're away–"

"No, _keep him_. Make him your ward."

Margaret reached for his hand, but Charles pulled away. "I know you're grieving now, and I can't even imagine how you feel, but… Surely you'll want to have your son with you again after you return? The memories might not be so painful after a few months," Margaret whispered.

"I can't look at him! Please! You have to help me; she would want you to help."

"I _will_ help you, but I don't think this is right. You can't give up your child."

Charles gave a hysterical laugh, the sound startlingly Gabriel awake, who then began to cry. Charles hardly looked at the boy; he just thrust him out for Margaret to take.

John thought his behavior very odd and leaned into Margaret to whisper quickly in her ear. "We'll take him. Charles looks half-mad; it might be unsafe for the boy to stay with him presently. If he wants his son back when he returns from the Crimea, we'll deal with it then."

Margaret nodded, her gaze also following Charles' abnormal movements. "Very well, Charles. We will make him our ward."

Charles jumped to his feet. He didn't even offer thanks, he merely pulled a stack of bank notes out of his coat pocket and shoved them into John's hands. "For his keep."

He fled into the night, further shocking the distraught couple, who, over the course of mere minutes, had gained another son.

Gabriel was re-introduced to Milo and given a bed in the nursery and a place in their hearts. Margaret's expression was pained every time Gabriel asked for his Mama, but these requests were soon soothed by Margaret herself appearing to him.

"I don't know whether to be happy or sad about that," she told John softly. "I've come to love him as though he was my own; my last link to Edith. What will happen when the Captain finally comes back?"

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The frightful question never needed to be answered, however. Charles never came back for his son. News of Charles' death – killed in action – reached them a year later, in the form of a notice from the War Office. Britain had lost less than a hundred men during that battle, which made Charles' death even more senseless.

This note, coupled with the letter she had received about Edith's death, made it so that it would be many years before Margaret could bring herself to open her letters again; John or Caoimhe did it for her, skimming it for sad news before giving it to her to read.


	47. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

"The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children's they are heaven's lieutenants"

The first time that Gabriel called her Mama, and meant it for her, Margaret had to work hard not to dissolve into tears. She was pleased that Gabriel had not suffered any last melancholy over his lot in life, but at the same time she didn't want him to forget his true parents completely.

Gabriel did have memories of his parents, but not many, and they'd likely fade to only a pleasant remembrance as he grew older. Margaret made sure to tell him stories of them and answered his questions as frankly as she could when he asked where they were and why they never came to visit him.

Gabriel had trouble sleeping the first few months he lived at the manor, the strange new place, and the constant noise of the mill frightening him. But with Margaret and John's help, he moved passed his anxiety and became as happy as only children can be.

Margaret too, made herself remember joyful times with her cousin. The first ball they'd attended together, where Margaret was so nervous she spilt a glass of wine on the table during supper, and Edith had made her laugh so much afterwards that she quite forgotten the embarrassment over it. Or when they were fitted up for their first grown up riding habits, how mature and stylish they felt. But Margaret also remembered every angry word that she had directed at her cousin, and they haunted her. She relied on John's wisdom that this guilt would pass, until only happy memories remained.

It took a long time, but she could soon think on Edith without pain. There was still the residual sadness – whenever the post was delivered, or when she saw someone carrying a lace parasol, or saw a young woman with bright blonde hair. But it was less consuming, less crippling. Although she still couldn't read her letters. Sometimes she couldn't even bring herself to write any; one of her only regular correspondents gone.

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Aunt Shaw had wanted Gabriel. She protested their adopting of Gabriel after Edith died, but after Charles' death, she came in person to Milton.

"He ought to be with his family; his close relatives," she insisted.

"Charles asked us to care for him. I don't want to disrespect his wishes; not to mention that he's almost our son already. I don't think your plan will be helpful to Gabriel. He's already been uprooted once. He needs more stability than you're offering him. He needs more than a nursemaid and a room in the attic. If he's here, he'll have a brother and a father… we will make sure he gets a good education and you can visit him whenever you want," Margaret promised pleadingly.

"I'm sure you and John have the means to look after him. But you must agree that he belongs with his immediate family," said Aunt Shaw severely.

Margaret bit her lip and looked over at Gabriel, playing on the floor with John and Milo. He was happy and content, far better than he'd been when he first arrived. And Margaret didn't want to lose her son.

"I appreciate how awful this is for you," she said sadly. "But we need to do what's best for Gabriel. I'm certain he'll be better off here."

Aunt Shaw appealed to Mother and then to Mama, wanting them to compel Margaret and John to give up their son, but Aunt Shaw was surprised to learn that they both thought it would be better for Gabriel to stay with Margaret and John. Aunt Shaw went away grudgingly satisfied, and contented herself with Margaret's promise of frequent visits and the guarantee to have input over the major decisions of Gabriel's life.

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In May, a few months after they received news of Charles' death, John received another shocking letter – it was from a lawyer, informing him that Charles had made John the executor of his estate, and left the bulk of his fortune to John and Margaret.

He and Margaret travelled to London to deal with the execution of the will; incurring the fury of Charles' family in the process, who felt they ought to have been left the money, in addition to the properties and investments that had been left to them. In their mind, Charles had left his fortune to a stranger; whose wife was barely a family member and an unwanted one at that.

John understood their point but there wasn't anything he could do about it; the will was contested in court for months by Charles' family, but the judge ruled that Charles' intent had been clear – the Thorntons were to keep the money.

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They debated – sometimes argued – over what to do with it. Margaret thought that Charles intended it to be given to Gabriel entirely; while it was John's opinion that Charles left it to him and Margaret to further their business so as to provide a more stable future for his son.

"It wouldn't have been difficult for him to give it to Gabriel. But he didn't, he gave it in our name. That must've meant something to him, other than having it just be Gabriel's, otherwise he would've simply done it that way."

"If it had been you, you'd expect me to give your fortune to our son," Margaret argued.

"After you had built the business; that's why the mill is left to you and not to Milo."

"Using it to fund our own enterprise doesn't sit well with me," Margaret said. "Why would Charles have cared so much about giving us the money?"

"Perhaps Edith spoke to him."

"Don't use Edith to guilt me into this, John."

He sighed heavily. "I'm not. I simply meant that perhaps they talked of this and Edith made him realize it was the best option. You told her that we would help if she needed it, and Charles left Gabriel here months before he wrote the will. Perhaps in his mind, those two things fit together."

"That only makes sense if we were struggling and we aren't, not even slightly. We are able to look after Gabriel without this money." Margaret sighed too. "Let's just... put a hold on this for now. They money isn't going anywhere and we're going to have a serious row if we don't stop here."

They talked on and off about it, all the way to Milo's second birthday, before ultimately deciding to use the money to buy out Harkness' languishing mill, and another dye and print factory.

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This past year of grief hadn't left a physical mark on Margaret; she was still as beautiful as ever. There was a slight twist to her mouth that hadn't been there before, that appeared whenever she thought of her cousin; and sometimes she wasn't so quick to laugh as she had been before. But with two cheerful toddlers in the house and incredibly busy with their new factories and the infants school she'd set up in Princeton, Margaret did regain her spirits. The boys followed her enthusiastically as she went about her day, or happily made a mess in his office with him.

Milo had picked up speech quickly, especially with another child in the house. His first word had been Bree – his attempt at saying his brother's name – and the nickname stuck. Since he was still developing verbal ways to express his emotions, Milo often had tantrums, though John and Margaret became good at distracting him and they were few. His biggest issue was having to share, Milo only just discovering that the toys were essentially his, and not his parents. The stuffed rabbit was a clear favourite, but he also disliked to share other things with Gabriel, leading everyone to have a headache over tying to calmly teach him to take turns. Margaret and John exaggeratingly shared things when they played with the boys, hoping to teach them.

Despite the sadness that surrounded his arrival, Gabriel adjusted well to his new life. Margaret had decided that he ought to be breeched for his fourth birthday and he'd been very excited over it; he'd gotten into John's chest of drawers and played dress up for days beforehand, tracking clothes all over the house. He wore his new outfits so proudly, glad to be out of toddler dresses and into grown up clothes. Milo, seeing Gabriel's change, also begged to wear trousers, but Margaret was determined that it wouldn't be until he was three, at least.

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In July, larger beds were ordered for Milo and Gabriel, who were growing rapidly.

"That crib looks rather empty," said Margaret, letting the silk curtains ripple over her fingers. "Gabriel's wearing grown up clothes, and it'll be Milo's turn before long. We won't have any babies left soon."

"And you want another?" John asked her warmly.

"Yes. And I know three was our compromise, but I was hoping that was more playful than concrete. We ought to have an even number, at least," she grinned.

"So you want _two_ more children? We will be busy," John laughed, gathering her in his arms and kissing her soundly.

He had meant it more as a double entendre but it turned out to be true in the sense that they were far too busy with the children and the factories to spend much time alone together. Their third child was actually conceived at midnight in September, both of them having hidden themselves away in the drawing room, their lips never leaving the other's mouth in an effort not to wake the house with their passion.

They kept the news of Margaret's pregnancy from the children, not really wanting to explain it to them yet, but did drop hints over whether they might be excited about a new sibling. Milo was fairly indifferent, not really caring about the topic, but Gabriel asked if he'd have to give up his new bed for the baby and was preoccupied with what would happen to him if John and Margaret had another child.

John was certain he knew why Gabriel asked questions of this tone. As Gabriel grew older, it became more noticeable that he looked nothing like them, nothing like Milo. He had Edith's pale blonde hair and hazel eyes. Someone made an unkind remark and while it didn't offend the boy – too young to understand it – he did repeat it and Margaret and John had to work to undo the potential damage from it.

John knew he would have to explain to his son that he was wanted. Not expected but no less loved for that. That he was as much as theirs as though he had been born to them. John and Margaret made sure to talk to him often about his parents, but it was a fine line to walk; wanting him to know about them, but not making him feel as though he was a burden on them.

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Fred wrote to Margaret often, keeping her updated on his life. She was glad to receive each one, but only after Caoimhe had read it first. Then she could enjoy the letters in peace. They talked of many things, Edith and Gabriel among them; how sad Margaret felt over everything, and how much John and her children helped her through it.

From the tone of Fred's letters, and the words he used to describe Felipe, Margaret had a feeling the two of them were more than just friends. She might have been more shocked by that knowledge if she wasn't feeling relief that her brother was happy at last. His elation was unmistakable, it bled into every word he wrote.

When he wrote to say that the two of them were coming to visit England for the winter and asked to stay with her and John, Margaret agreed happily. She resolved not to tell anyone of her suspicions, in case she was completely off the mark. It was a little odd that Fred would bring someone who was just a friend so far to meet them, but not so unusual for anyone to question it.

The arrived in Milton a few days before Christmas, having spent the earlier weeks touring all of London. Margaret hurried down the stairs eagerly when she heard the carriage approaching. Fred flung open the door and leapt out with a huge grin on his face.

"Gently!" Margaret exclaimed, seeing he was going to tackle her in an enthusiastic hug.

"My dearest Marguerite!" he cried, changing tack and wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her cheek. "Its been far too long."

"And yet you look exactly the same," Margaret teased. Fred did look older, in fact. Broader, and more sophisticated. He'd always been outgoing, but it had always had an underline of trying to hard, and now that vein was gone so that only his confidence remained.

"Thanks to my youthful good looks," he grinned. Arm still around her shoulders, Fred gestured to the other young man who had exited the carriage behind him. "This is Felipe Montero. Felipe, this is my sister Margaret Thornton."

"I'm pleased to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you," said Margaret warmly, shaking his hand. He was a handsome man, tall and thin, with beautiful olive skin.

"And I you. Fred talks of you always," he smiled.

"Let's go into the drawing room and warm up," Margaret said. "John will be home in a little while. Urquhart, could you take their cases up to the guest rooms please?"

Margaret let the way inside. Milo and Gabriel were playing in the corner of the room, but stopped shyly upon noticing the strangers in the house.

"This is your Uncle Fred I was telling you about," Margaret told the boys, motioning them towards her. "And his friend Felipe."

The men greeted the boys warmly; Milo hid behind Margaret's legs but Gabriel lifted his chin and asked Fred; "Is it true you're a pirate?"

"No, I was a sailor. I've met a pirate though," Fred replied mysteriously. That was enough of an invitation; Gabriel's eyes went wide and he begged to hear more. By the time John arrived home, Fred and Gabriel were deep in discussion about Fred's adventures sailing the seas.

Over the next few days, Margaret took Fred and Felipe over the factories so that they could see the expansions they'd made in the past few years, and all the changes that had happened to Milton since Fred had left.

"Are you still looking at putting your own designs in the print factories?" Fred asked her, examining the print screens.

"Yes, hopefully. I've been taking samples of designs to drapers and sending them to out to our regular buyers to see if people like them. When I get enough interest, I'll begin trialing it."

"This is amazing! When Fred told me that you and your husband were cotton manufacturers, I didn't imagine anything like this. You must be one of the largest producers in Britain!" exclaimed Felipe, staring around the shed.

"One of them," Margaret smiled. "We're the largest exporters in this county."

The entire house was in a flurry on Christmas day, and very full with all the family. The boys could barely sit still during breakfast. Margaret finally took pity on them and let them go into the drawing drawing to open their presents. Fred and Felipe had brought a trunk full of gifts for them – an ark of animals, toy soldiers, wooden swords, sailors caps and some toy boats for summer, which Margaret though was exceedingly kind.

The boys eagerly tore the wrappings off everything and exclaimed happily over the gifts, ferrying them back and forth between the sofas and the tree, constantly interrupting the conversation between the adults.

Margaret had been watching Fred and Felipe carefully since they arrived. She liked Felipe very much. He was a quiet person, preferring to sit and observe rather than throw himself in, unlike Fred. But Margaret did notice that he and Fred would glance at each other in the same way that she and John did – at a private joke or memory. Since she was observing them, she couldn't help but notice that John was watching them furtively as well.

That night, after carrying their exhausted children up to bed, Margaret asked John what he thought of their guests.

"They seem very close," he said carefully, having no doubt seen what she had.

"Yes," replied Margaret softly. "Does that bother you?"

"I don't know. I don't think I'm ecstatic over it. But, in saying that, it's none of my business how they choose to live their lives. And if they both know what's going on, and if they're happy, that's what matters," he replied, stretching out on the bed next to her.

"That's how I feel as well. It shocked me, but… I've never seen Fred so happy before, and he deserves it after everything; even though some of his mistakes were of his own making, not all of them were."

"I just hope they're careful," John said, frowning in worry. "What they're doing is illegal."

"Fred's not the most discrete person, but I'm sure he will be with this. He knows what's at stake. And if he loves him, he wouldn't want to do anything to put him in danger," said Margaret to reassure them both.

"Felipe does seem to be helping him a great deal. He has a calming influence that keeps Fred grounded. And I know from my own experience that have a partner with you through your distress is a wonderful thing," John observed, smiling at her and shifting closer and pulling her into his arms.

Margaret sighed contently. "Yes, it does. You and the children have been what's got me through everything."

Before they left, Fred drew Margaret aside. He was uncharacteristically grave. He tried to say something several times, before finally nervously asking her what she thought of Felipe.

"I like him more than you already," she smiled.

Fred grinned, relieved. "Good; you should. He's a far better person than I am."

Fred didn't say anything further on the subject and Margaret didn't press him; she didn't want Fred to tell her something he didn't want to. She simply hugged him close, happy that he was doing so well.

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Despite Mother, Margaret, Caoimhe and John to watch the children, the two boys tore the place apart daily, like little whirlwinds, in one door and out the other, leaving havoc behind them. They covered poor Gus in jam, and tried to ride him like a pony. They mischievously took a single bite out of all the apples in the kitchen and put them back on the counter bite-side down thinking no one would notice. They sometimes threw temper tantrums over the oddest things; their favourite foods being served at dinner, having to get dressed – having to get _un_ dressed, leaving the house. Gabriel once screamed blue murder in the courtyard because 'someone was following him' and it turned out to be his shadow.

But most of the time though, they were completely loveable. Milo liked to sit on John's lap and watch him work in the office. He'd heard Margaret say 'oh dear' and now said it in a very dramatic tone in response to anything he thought upset him or others. Both he and Gabriel would peer between the banisters on the upper floors and dance about excitedly when John or Margaret came home.

Margaret was good at thinking up games for the boys – a treasure hunt or follow the leader. She put a bit of soap in a wash tub and blew bubbles with straw sticks looped into circles. She also put some purple iris in the water to make it a fun colour, accidently staining their skin. John came home in the evening to find the boys an alarming shade of violet, Margaret also stained up to her elbows, laughing helplessly. The colour didn't wash off for two days; the purple boys scaring the wits out of the mill workers.

Margaret's second pregnancy was much smoother than her first. Both of them knew what to expect now and were calmer for it. They waited eagerly for each new sign of growth. Sometimes, John thought of Edith and what had happened to her, but Margaret was calmer over this pregnancy, and so he was as well. Although, she did complain that this next child was due in the beginning of spring, and hoped that it would be as uncomfortable in the heat as last time.

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Walking back to the manor from John's office, Margaret suddenly felt a peculiar sensation inside her, as thought the child had turned one way and she another. She used the edge of the loading dock to steady herself, holding her breath in terror, but nothing more happened. She raised a shaking hand to her forehead and felt the sweat that had gathered there. She ought to get inside before John found her, she didn't want him to panic as well.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" asked Mary, stopping hesitantly on her way to the spinning shed.

"Yes," she replied unsteadily. "If you could just help me to the house…"

Mary took her arm and guided her to the manor and upstairs to the drawing room. "Shall I get master for ya?" she asked anxiously.

"No, I'm fine." Margaret's breath caught, bright spots of light appearing in front of her eyes. ' _I'm fine_.' Edith…

Margaret reached blindly for the sofa and sagged on to it. "Thank you, Mary. You may return to your duties," she told the woman, trying to keep her voice even.

Margaret closed her eyes and breathed deeply, calming herself by the feel of the baby's movements under her palms. She stayed like that until her heartbeat returned to normal. She reasoned that it had simply been an odd feeling coupled with the unusual hot day, rather than something wrong with the baby. This child was as active as Milo had been, and Margaret welcomed each and every turn. It meant that he was just as strong and healthy.

Not wanting to alarm her family, she didn't tell them about the event, resolving to send a message to Mr. Jenkins if it happened again.

When the labor did start a few weeks later – and right on time – Margaret was in a much better frame of mind than she'd been the first time. The sensations were almost welcome; she was impatient to meet her new child. She had woken to the pain in the very early hours of the morning so John remained in their room with her instead of going to the mill.

"We ought to send the children to Mama and Papa. I don't want the boys to be frightened," Margaret told John, arranging the pillows around her comfortably.

"I'll ask Caoimhe to take them when it gets light," John agreed.

"I'm not sure what I want this time. I had a notion Milo was going to be a boy, but I haven't really had a feeling about this one," Margaret mused.

"Another boy would be a lot of work," John chuckled. "But we've experience with boys and none with girls. We'd have to start again with the learning process if it was a girl."

"You don't think I'd know how to raise a girl?" she teased.

"'Course not. Look how wild you turned out," John smiled, leaning in to kiss her.

Once it was light enough outside and her pain was more intense, they rang for Caoimhe and asked her to take the children to Crampton. They were first brought into the bedroom so Margaret could see them off.

"Are you unwell, Mama?" asked Gabriel apprehensively, noticing Margaret's tense expression, and still in her nightgown.

"Only a little, darling. I'll be alright tomorrow and there'll be a surprise waiting for you and Milo when you get back."

"New toy?" asked Milo excitedly, causing the adults to laugh.

"No, a new brother or sister," John told them amusedly.

"Will he be able to play cricket?" asked Gabriel hopefully.

"You'll have to teach him when he's older; he's a bit too young at present," said Margaret.

"Oh," replied Gabriel dejectedly; clearly he'd been hoping for an older brother, not a baby.

Margaret lent over and hugged her boys close. "Be good while you're away. And be nice to each other."

They dutifully promised and Caoimhe ushered them out of the room again.

"That was good timing," said Margaret, clenching her teeth through a particularly painful contraction.

"This labor seems to be happening more quickly than the last one," John observed disquietly, rubbing her back.

"Thank god."

Margaret hadn't been afraid of the sensations this time, but now that she was in labor, she thought of Edith and that _did_ frighten her. Sister Hurst was sent for, and reassured her and John that all looked well.

It wasn't fifteen hours but it was still far too long for Margaret's comfort. The child was born just after four that afternoon, screaming lustily.

"Another boy," Sister Hurst told them happily. "Congratulations."

"No Florence again then," said Margaret tiredly, reaching eagerly for her son. "Never mind, I think I really wanted a boy anyway. Look how perfect he is, John."

"Aye, he's beautiful," he agreed softly, smoothing his thumb across the baby's soft head. "Tristan. It suits him already."

"That's a lovely name," Sister Hurst smiled.

Margaret sighed and lent back into the pillows. She was so happy; another son, another beautiful child. This labor had been just as painful, and frightening for a different reason, but now that it was over, she began to relax. Soon, she'd have all her children around her again, and a delightful new baby to make every day even more perfect.

And then, everything started to go wrong.


	48. Epilogue

*A/N: This has been an amazing journey for me and I'm so glad that you all were so wonderfully supportive and positive. I learnt a lot about myself while I wrote this and I was astounded that people actually liked my story, and further astounded that my first attempt at writing something was so well received. Thank you all so much. A huge thank you to those who reviewed steadily every week; your support and comments were utterly delightful and helped me continue when I felt at a bit of loss of what to write!

The novel began with two incredibly separate perceptions; only coming together during the proposal scene and the day before it, the first time the action is split so directly down the middle of their two points of view. After that, I switched quickly between the two of them, so that you would know how they were both learning how to love each other and how their married life developed.

Here is the final chapter, with the two of them finally together as one.

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 **Epilogue**

 _Margaret_

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves"

 _John_

"Save men's opinions and my living blood, to show the world I am a gentleman"

 _All I can feel is heat; tearing, burning fire. I can't breathe. I've lost something, I know it; something should be in my arms and isn't. I try to reach for it, but I can't move. I'm sinking into flames._

Margaret is restless with fever, sometimes talking with people only she can see. She speaks to Edith, which terrifies me. I force myself to stay awake, holding her hand and wiping her brow, so that I can drag Margaret back to me if she tries to leave with her departed cousin.

 _I see peculiar things; mostly strangers who seem to know me and call to me joyfully. They grab at my gown, pulling me, dragging me to a place I know I should want to go, but I have a niggling feeling that I'm leaving something important behind that I shouldn't. Edith comes to me, smiling, and tries to get me to follow her. I desperately want to see Edith again, but I'm not sure if I should leave. An expansive shape next to me, with the voice of a demon but the body of an angel, speaks to me continuously. Sometimes it weeps, which scares me. Angels should not weep. I try to claw myself back to the angel – it seems important and it begs me to do just that – but my body will not obey me._

She is ill for so long that a wet nurse has to be engaged for Tristan, which adds to Margaret's distress. In her fevered state, she imagines the wet nurse as a wicked fairy that has stolen her child; the oddness of her delusion even scaring my unflappable mother.

 _That vile woman is here, hurting me and my child. I dream I am giving birth to a beautiful boy, the midwife helping me, only for the midwife to turn into a hideous harpy, spitting fire. I try to snatch the child to my breast and to safety, but the harpy is too quick, her talons raking at the child's skin, blood pouring out of him, out of me. I scream at the horror of it. The angel is there by my side, and I beg him to save the child, but he doesn't. He just stands there and weeps, just like he always does._

Mr. Jenkins comes to the manor many times to administer medicines to Margaret, his expression very grave. Caoimhe prays fervently over her mistress, Mother holds Margaret's hand tightly between her own.

But I'm the one who is here when her fever breaks.

Margaret's body finally relaxes its contortions, her face unlined of pain for the first time in days. Her eyes are clear and capture mine easily; staying focused on me this time. I stretch out next to her, touching as much of her skin as I can with my body. I bury my face in her hair, and tearfully thank her over and over again for coming back to me.

 _The first thing I see is the angel with the dark voice; John, still real, still an angel, still here with me. I am back with my husband, back with my children. All mine, always mine, forever. If death cannot sever us, nothing will. We are built of iron and steel; we have conquered the world; we are the rulers of our kingdom. John, John._

Even after the fever breaks, Margaret is still too weak to leave our bed. The only bright times in her day is when the children are brought down from the nursery to visit with their ailing mother. When they are taken away from her, Margaret cries bitterly, as if it is the last time she might see them. She spends the rest of her time sleeping fitfully in my arms.

 _I know I'm no longer so ill, but the weight of it is still pressed to my chest, making it hard to breathe. Only when John's arms are around me can I feel calm. I hug each of my children close, needing to convey years of love in a single moment, in case it is my last. I'm not ready, I have so much to live for. Let me stay, I beg. Anyone, anyone, let me stay, please. I cannot live without them, even if I am the one who leaves._

Slowly – achingly so – she does get better. Once she is well enough to leave our room, she drifts from me a little; desperate to make up the lost time with our newborn son and the older children. I wait patiently for her to return to me, knowing that she needs this.

 _I know I'm pushing John away. He has never left my side in all of this, and I repay him by losing myself in my mind. When we aren't with the children, I'm quietly thinking of them, memorizing them. Laying next to him at night, I almost ignore him, so wrapped up in our children and our lives outside each other. I hate that I'm doing this but I can't stop myself. Safe, safe, they must be safe first. The children first, then John. John is next, I tell myself. Fix the children, then John, then yourself._

Eight months after she recovers, the two of us make love again, for the first time since the beginning of her pregnancy. I pull Margaret atop me, wrapping her securely in my arms, kissing her ceaselessly. I bury myself inside her, thrusting into her occasionally, but mostly we just hold still, savoring the feeling we've been desperately missing for so long. Our lovemaking isn't sexual, only comforting. We are still for so long that I feel myself soften inside her, but I still do not pull away.

"No more children, Margaret," I beg in an agonizing whisper. "No more. I won't survive if I lose you. We have our three children. Please. _Please_."

Margaret presses her forehead to mine; she is quiet for so long I grow afraid again. Finally, in a small voice, she agrees. Then we both sob in anguish for how close we came to losing each other.

 _I can feel him deep inside me, exactly where I always want him. It's as if our souls are touching; the pleasure, the intensity of it too great to bear in any other way than these small gifts of climax. He stays inside me for hours, as a goodbye. I know it will be months, if not years before he forgives himself enough to do this again._

It takes me an extremely long time afterwards before I enter her again, so terrified am I of getting her with child. Margaret tells me repeatedly that her illness had not been my fault; that we had simply been unlucky. I know in theory that Margaret is right, but it does not help my feelings of guilt. But soon, Margaret's spirit returns and, lost in passion, we break our promise several times. We are still very careful, but, almost four years after the horrifying incident, Margaret gives birth to another boy – Noah. This birth is mercifully quick, only six hours long, as though to make up for her agonizing preceding one. I thank God for their safe delivery – my handsome fourth son and darling wife.

 _Another miracle child, who I was clearly meant to have in spite of our promise. Three births, just as I wished, with an extra angel given to me by the grace of God. My darling children, my beautiful husband. My family complete at last._


End file.
